


My Brother's Keeper

by OUATLovr



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multiple Pairings, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5993026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fluffy, angsty, or humorous one-shots pertaining to everyone's favorite bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother Mine

Bash had to force his feet to a fast pace, but not running, as he entered the castle that morning, fear for the state in which he might find his brother at the forefront of his mind. Perhaps what he had done to Clarissa had been in vain, and his superstitions were for naught.

He knew that Francis would certainly have said so. Would have laughed off his concerns about the balance of the universe as simple wives' tales, just as he had Mary's when she had been convinced that marrying him would cause his death.

"Your Majesty," he said softly, and hoped the shock in his voice could be misinterpreted as happiness that he had awoken.

Bash drank in every inch of his brother, living, whole. The blood had been cleaned from his ears, his hair brushed back and his clothes changed into something that did not reflect his recent illness. A mug of water sat beside the bed, half drank, and he was covered in furs and warm blankets. Bash couldn't quell the need to go and shut the windows, for he was certain by his brother's pale face that the cool air outside was not helping him to recover, but he forced his hands to stay still, leaning instead on the end of the bed.

He hoped that no one saw how badly his hands were shaking.

For Bash was glad that the King was awake, yes. But this...

"I'm fine, brother," Francis grinned at him, voice and eyes a little too tired for Bash's liking, but otherwise looking just as fine as he claimed. His eyes crinkled a bit in concern, for Bash never called him Majesty, by his own insistence; always brother. Bash forced a smile to reassure him, and Francis turned back to his papers.

Because he looked so happy, even as his advisors plagued him with papers to sign and bills to pass.

Looked so happy, even if it were not painfully obvious that his wife was not present to share in that happiness.

Catherine moved around the King's bed to stand beside Bash; something she would never have done a year ago, when he was merely the King's bastard. Something she would never have done if she knew what Bash had done to save her son's life.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps Catherine, of all people, would have understood why he had to do it. Perhaps she would not have hated him as he was sure Francis might, if he but knew.

Still, Bash knew then that he would never tell Francis the price he had paid for his younger brother's life. That he and the healer woman from the woods would take the secret of Clarissa's death to their graves.

"It was like a miracle," Catherine said softly then, eyes never leaving Francis, as if she were afraid to do so, and Bash found himself, for once, sharing the sentiment.

He blinked at her word choice.

"Yes, a miracle," he repeated, thinking of what he'd had to do to ensure that miracle. Of Clarissa, falling in his arms as the wine goblet dropped from her fingers, as the healer whispered in his ear that he had saved her from so much suffering.

He had not done it to save her from suffering. He had done it to save Francis from suffering, from dying.

All for Francis.

"You never know what might help. We have to try everything, don't we?"

He hadn't wanted to believe it, not even when Clarissa lay dying in his arms, not even when he took the poison from Catherine's stores, knowing that she wouldn't miss it.

But here it was - the living proof. Francis was awake, alive. Fine, even, since this morning.

Because Bash had killed a girl for him. And not just a girl- his sister. Francis' sister, too.

Francis' hand began to shake as he signed another document then, almost as if he knew Bash's morbid thoughts, and his smile lessened a bit, even as he stubbornly lifted his other hand to steady himself. The advisors watching said nothing, but Catherine's narrow gaze missed nothing, and she stepped forward almost threateningly.

"The King is tired," she said then, voice brokering no argument, and several of the advisors flinched at the tone of voice - perhaps all remembering when she was the Queen and what sort of powers she had exercised with that voice then - before making a hasty retreat, shutting the door to the King's chamber silently behind them and leaving the royal family alone.

Well, not all of the royal family, but Bash hardly noticed in his elation to find his brother alive and well.

Francis sighed as they made their hasty retreat, leaning back into his pillows. "Mother, I'm fine-"

Catherine moved around to the side of the bed, giving him a smile that seemed too sad for his condition, for this miracle, before placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and brushing the hair from his eyes. "Allow your mother some time to fret over you while she knows it won't do you harm, please. You need to rest, my love."

Bash had never heard her use such soft words but with her eldest son.

Francis bit his lip, not meeting her eyes but leaning into the scant amount of affection his mother could offer nonetheless. Finally, he nodded, the action reminding Bash of when he was a small child for some reason.

Catherine straightened, brushing down her robes and sending a glare Bash's way that let him know in no uncertain terms that he would not be repeating this show of vulnerability on her part to anyone. "I will deal with the nobles. You rest," she snapped at Francis, when she caught his not-so-subtle glance toward the many piles of bills still laying beside his bed.

Francis sighed, finally giving her a surrendering smile. "Yes, mother."

She nodded curtly, and then glanced at Bash. "Well, I suppose you have something to say to him as well. He needn't hear about the state of the kingdom just yet," she admonished, and Bash found himself nodding at her words.

And then she was gone, robes swirling behind her as a servant outside opened the double doors and she swept out.

Bash waited until the doors had once again shut before turning back to stare at Francis. His gaze swept over his brother, missing nothing. He could see the dark circles beneath Francis' eyes, the too light pallor of his skin, but he wouldn't leave until he was certain that it had worked. That Francis was not going to suddenly collapse once more.

"You're truly all right?" he finally asked, when the silence between them grew thick, hardly able to bring himself to believe it. A part of him wanted to lean forward and touch, make sure for certain that Francis was well, but heaven knew how Francis would react to that.

Francis smirked at his brother's worrying. "Yes, brother. Fine. I don't know how many times I'm going to have to repeat myself before everyone believes it."

Bash frowned. "You gave us all quite a scare, Francis."

Francis looked as though he were trying hard not to roll his eyes, and Bash bit his lip, wondering how many times Catherine had already informed him of that fact. "I know that."

The silence hung between them then, palpable in the small room, and Bash could not help but wonder when the distance between them had begun. He could remember a time, not so long ago, when they were inseparable, knew all of each other's secrets. Before Francis had killed their father. Before Bash tried to steal Mary to save Francis' life from a prophecy that had been unavoidable anyway.

Still, Bash could never tell his brother the one secret that weighed down on him now. Could never give his little brother such a burden to bear.

He stared down at Francis, but it was Clarissa's unseeing eyes that he saw. Bash quickly blinked them away, finally reaching down to rest his hand on Francis' blanketed foot.

Real. Alive.

Francis ran a shaky hand through blond hair, not meeting his brother's gaze. "Did it scare her, too?"

It took a moment for Bash to figure out whom he was referring to.

He stiffened, heart breaking a little more. "Francis...Mary stayed by your side after hearing that you had fallen ill. She was the one with you when you first awoke... I know things are not well between the two of you, but thinking only of her betrayal will not help you to fully heal any more than hearing about the affairs of state."

Francis didn't answer for some time, and, when he did, it was with only a faint nod.

"You're tired," Bash interrupted his somber thoughts. "Your mother told you to rest."

"I don't feel like sleeping," Francis answered petulantly, reminding Bash of when they were much younger and it had been his duty to look out for Francis. It still was, he supposed. He simply did it now without thinking, without hesitating as he might have, once. "My body feels tired but I...I just awoke. I don't think I ever want to sleep again."

Bash smirked. "Well, the sooner you rest, the sooner you can get back to ordering the rest of us around again, rather than having your mother and I order you about."

He had thought the words would be humorous, but, as he said them, he could not help the sad tone they erupted from, and when Francis glanced up at him with those sad, puppy eyes, he swallowed hard. "Get some sleep, Francis."

And then he was moving toward the door, content to let the King rest and to perhaps go and find his wayward wife, perhaps apologize.

"Will you stay with me?" his little brother asked, just as his hand fell upon the door handle. He turned, glancing back. He couldn't remember the last time Francis had asked him that, certainly not since they were both very young and his nights plagued by nightmares. "Just until I fall asleep?"

And Bash found himself nodding, promising himself that Francis would never know the truth even as he moved to sit beside him.

When Catherine returned in the morning, it was to the sight of her husband's bastard, arms wrapped protectively around her son while they slept. And, where two years ago she might have looked upon it as Bash being a hindrance, attempting to coerce Francis into letting him live once he was King, now she could not help the small smile that graced her lips at the sight, at the comfort she knew it must have brought her son while he slept, to know that someone was watching out for him.

If only she knew how much.


	2. Spanish Wine

Midnight, after everyone with sense had gone to bed and everyone without was at least shut away in their chambers, was perhaps the only tolerable part of a day at French Court.

At least, this was Bash's opinion, as he sank down into a sofa in the parlor just off the throne room and let out a sigh of relief as he got off his feet for the first time all day.

It had been a difficult day.

Francis had given him his orders in the morning, to investigate a disturbance in one of the nearby villages. It had taken half the day to do so, and then he'd been called back by a guard because of a threat to the King's safety; a noblewoman who'd entered the castle and held a particular grudge against King Henry, which no doubt included his son, for the death of her husband.

Dealing with her had been more difficult than the skirmish in the village.

He hadn't seen Francis afterward, though, informed that he was shut up with his advisors for what was likely to be the rest of the day. And he hadn't seen Kenna, who saw fit to torture him with presence in the neighboring chamber each night, but avoided him like the plague during the day.

He hadn't seen Mary, either, though he was convinced that this was more the fault of the Bourbon's than anyone else.

And the day had still had matters to attend to, things that had to be done in Francis' absence with his approval, as Mary, it seemed, had retired early to her rooms after supper, asking not to be disturbed.

Yes, it had been a long day, but it was thankfully over now. He tried not to think about the fact that it would only repeat itself, tomorrow, and that he should be sleeping now, rather than staring out the window wistfully.

He didn't want to go back to his chambers.

His chambers, though thankfully empty now, still sat adjacent to Kenna's, and he didn't want to face her, not tonight. Besides, here he didn't have to face anything but an open window, feeling the cool night breeze on his cheeks and knowing that, at least until tomorrow, he hadn't a care in the world.

He didn't hear Francis enter the room, but he saw his brother's haggard reflection in the glass of the full length mirror hanging at the other end of the parlor, and wondered if that decoration had been Kenna's contribution.

"You're still awake," Bash said, glancing up in surprise as Francis flopped down beside him on the sofa.

Francis shrugged, not meeting his gaze. His left hand was wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle, and he uncorked it, watching it fizz before speaking in a dull voice. "I wasn't. Couldn't sleep in there. Not again."

Bash raised a brow. "Your bed too comfortable, Your Majesty?"

He regretted the words instantly, watching as Francis' eyes dropped. For a moment, he thought Francis was going to actually cry, but then he screwed up his face and settled back into the cushions, features carefully blank.

And how many times had he done that, in the last few weeks. How many times had he lied by omission, forced himself to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him when there so clearly was.

Bash knew about Mary's...infidelity. Not the whole story, only that she'd been spending a considerable amount of her time with Conde recently, rather than with Francis. That she was happy when she was with Conde.

Had heard about it, from Kenna, who, he had realized over the course of their marriage, was quite the fountain of information when she wanted to be. Of course, she had not presented in the same light that Francis no doubt saw it.

Kenna.

He supposed it just hadn't sunken in yet.

Part of him was hoping that it never would.

Finally, Francis lifted his chin and whispered hoarsely, "Every time I close my eyes I can see them. Ghosts, lurking. Waiting for Mary..." he swallowed back a lump. "She's not the only one who finds that room unnerving anymore. I know that my nightmares can never compare to hers, but..."

They sat in silence for a long moment, before Francis dipped the wine bottle back and took a long - too long - gulp from it. After a moment, he hesitated, and then held it out to Bash.

Bash took the drink quickly, before his thoughts could focus on Kenna's and his disastrously ending marriage, or on Mary, leaving Francis, the man she had chosen over _Bash_ , for some other man.

The Prince of Conde, no less.

The wine burned down his throat, but not in the pleasant way, and he gagged, jerking it away and ignoring the few drops that splattered down his chin. "What the hell is this stuff?"

Francis snorted, though his eyes maintained their dead expression.

Not a twinkle in them for weeks now, and Bash would be lying if he said he wasn't concerned. More than concerned.

"A present from my brother-in-law, Philip."

"Well, it's disgusting. You should send him back a good Anjou recipe and let him know what he's been missing all these years. Hell, you could find something better in Claude's secret stores she thinks Catherine doesn't know about."

Francis' lips quirked, and it struck Bash then that he would do anything, in that moment, to see his brother smile. "I doubt he'd appreciate _that_ gesture."

Bash smirked. "Probably not."

The silence then was not so unnerving as it had been a moment ago, and if Bash threw aside all the things on his mind, he could pretend that this was just like when they were younger, both sons of the King and without a care in the world.

He glanced at Francis. He supposed it must have been harder, to be Francis, than it was to be Bash.

He had never really considered what Francis' life was really like, as the Heir, until he'd had the chance himself. Had thought that all of Francis' whining, all his jealousy that Bash got to leave the castle unattended while Francis was shut up every day like an infant, was silly. That Francis didn't realize how well he had it, not having to listen to the jeers of the nobles because they respected him, able to have any woman he wanted while he waited for his wife to return from her convent.

He had not been jealous of Francis in those days, per se. After all, his life was the woods, and had he been forced to stay away from them, he would have likely complained as much as Francis.

But when Mary had thrust him into the position of the heir himself, he'd found a new understanding for Francis' mood swings, the decisions he made that Bash would never agree with, could never make. And now that Francis was king...there were days that he almost felt sorry for his brother.

He did not remember feeling sorry for his brother on a daily basis until Conde came to Court, however.

"So..." Bash drawled, in a serious effort to change the line of thinking that both he and Francis were likely undergoing, "I heard that Catherine's found herself a new...pet."

Francis looked like he was trying very hard not to gag. "On second thought, I'd like some more of that stuff. If we drink the whole thing down, it might start to taste pleasant."

"I doubt that," Bash argued, but handed it over anyway. "We'll simply be too drunk to tell."

"Exactly." Francis took a long gulp. "You know, when Narcisse started blackmailing me for control of France, I never imagined I'd see the day when he and my mother..." he trailed off, and this time did gag a bit, evidently unable to even formulate the words.

Bash snatched the wine bottle back. "Are you sure that's not what he's doing now? Trying for some chance to control us again?"

Francis shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past him, but I'm not concerned. My mother has proven time and again that she is quite capable of looking after herself. If anything, I'd be more concerned for him. If I cared about him at all."

"Claude did seem rather upset about losing her...ah..."

"She's infatuated with Mother's new bodyguard for her, can't you tell?" Francis asked, lips twitching again, as if he wanted to smile, but couldn't seem to stretch his lips out far enough for it. He apprehended the wine bottle, but didn't drink from it yet. "Leith."

"You're rather well-versed in Court gossip these days, brother," Bash teased.

"Well, being a King sometimes has its advantages, you know." He leaned close. "I've been spending an awfully large amount of my time around Lola. She's not exactly as ready to share everything she hears as the Lady Kenna, but there's only so much you can say about a sleeping babe when we spend so much time with John."

Bash didn't quite know how to answer that, for he knew, inevitably, that Francis' thoughts had turned once again toward the woman he'd probably rather be spending time with, pleasant as Lola's company was. As his thoughts always did, these days.

Bash supposed they always did before, too, but that they had not brought him the pain Bash saw on his face now.

"How is he?" Bash asked, in an effort to turn the conversation toward lighter notes. He'd do anything to wipe that look off of Francis' face.

Francis blinked, as if waking from a long sleep, and turned slightly toward him, sipping absently at the wine. "Huh?"

"Your son," Bash coaxed with a slight smile.

He didn't get to see the child much. There simply wasn't the time, what with his duties to the Crown, though he did make an effort whenever he could remember to do so.

He knew well the loneliness of life as a bastard, even if the child was too young to understand it yet himself.

And, for a moment, he thought he would get a genuine smile from Francis. At the last moment, it tugged down into a frown, and he let out a weary sigh that seemed to make Bash weary in turn. "He's perfect, Bash. And you should see how Mother dotes on him with Lola. Between the two of them, he's going to be the most spoiled child in all of France." Another sigh. "I wish I could spend more time with him."

"You're the King, Francis. He'll know you still love him."

Francis nodded absently. "I know that. I just want..." and he stopped then, for he wasn't yet drunk enough to speak freely. "Is it wrong that I wish he was Mary's, even if I love him the same?"

Bash was quiet for a long instant, not quite sure how to broach that topic. Though the night was late and they had enough wine to tide them through this conversation, it wasn't one he particularly relished having. "Because then your line would be assured?" he asked, although he knew the answer before Francis even spoke it.

"...Because then, at least, I would have something to hold onto," he whispered.

"Francis..." he tried, and grabbed up the wine bottle to take another long gulp before he said anything more. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Francis asked, glancing at him with wide eyes. "Out of everyone in this castle, you and my son are perhaps the only people I still consider innocent of any wrongdoing."

Bash raised a brow. "Innocent?" he asked, lips quirking with amusement.

Francis shrugged. "Well..." he snatched back the wine bottle.

"I'm sorry that you and Mary are having so much trouble," Bash said finally, "And I'm sorry that I was a part of it."

"Part of it?" Francis echoed, turning back to him. "What are you talking about?"

Bash sighed. "I knew that hiding the truth from Mary was wrong. That she deserved to know about what happened to our father. She's a woman, Francis, not a doll. She would have found a way to protect herself, if she needed to." A sigh. "I'm just as guilty as you; I was helping you find Montgomery, that night. We were both lying to our wives."

And Francis let out a harsh sound then, that was somewhere between a snort and a sob, taking another sip of the wine and wincing as it burned its way down his throat. "I know I shouldn't have kept it from her. She might have been able to help, before things got...too far. God, I knew then, but I...I just couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her...because of me." He grimaced. "I suppose I was holding on to her too tightly then, too."

And Bash didn't know how to answer that, so he simply grabbed the wine bottle back from his brother and gulped down some more. It was surprising him, that they hadn't yet managed to put a dent in the bottle, and yet his head already felt quite buzzed.

"She's sleeping with him," Francis muttered, and Bash blinked in surprise at the words. "Conde."

He could remember the day Mary and Francis had been wed; it had been seared into his mind all too well, thanks to his father.

Could remember, as he walked away with his hands bound behind him after witnessing their consummation, realizing that Mary had never loved him the way she loved Francis. That their love was written in the stars, and no one, not even he, would ever truly be able to push the two of them away from each other.

It was the night he realized he would never have Mary, never have the love of a woman the way Francis did, and a part of him had hated his half-brother, in that moment, where he never had before.

Mary was sleeping with Conde.

"She...does she realize how much trouble she could get into, if anyone found out? If Catherine finds out?" Bash demanded. "She could..."

"I know," Francis grimaced. "I know. But...she tells me that he makes her feel happy. That she doesn't want to hurt me, and that we should both move on."

"She's the Queen of France," Bash said. "She _can't_ move on."

Francis opened his mouth to speak again, and Bash was not so sure he wanted to hear any more, but he listened anyway. For his brother.

"She wants me to grant him the official protection of the Crown."

And Bash had no idea what to say in response to that but, "Will you?"

Francis sighed. "Of course I will. How could I not? I've been doing it since the moment he claimed to be a Protestant, and I've been attempting to keep the rumors down since the moment he first laid eyes on her." He coughed. "I lied to my mother today, for them. Told her that Mary would never think of Conde like that. I've been lying to everyone for such a long time, Bash. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up."

"You don't have to lie to me," Bash heard himself say, took another sip of that wine so he didn't have to think about the words.

"He's parading her around Court like one of his mistresses. Can't she see how he's taking advantage of her while she's vulnerable? Or does she hate me so much?"

"I doubt that she could ever hate you, but I'm not sure I'm the one you should be asking that," Bash said softly, not meeting his brother's eyes. "I can hardly be objective."

And Francis paused then, glancing over at Bash with an almost human expression in his eyes, for the first time in so long. But not the twinkling smile that Bash would have liked to see, the one that lit up his whole face and usually came at Mary's bidding; only compassion.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, the words seeming to form awkwardly on his lips, and yet conveying so much. Bash was about to wave them away, when Francis continued, "Here I am burdening you with all of my troubles, and you have enough to deal with on your own."

"You're my King, Francis. Nothing is more important than your troubles, and how I can fix them if it is within my power to do so," Bash responded, easily, and realized that every word was as true as the day he had said them in oath to his King.

What's more, they had been for much longer than he'd thought.

Francis blinked; obviously, he had not been expecting that answer, and Bash felt a wave of guilt that he didn't. "Kenna has mentioned, frequently, to Lady Lola her desire for an annulment." He said the words blankly, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

The words were not meant to hurt, only an offer to let Bash unload as Francis had, but they did hurt, even if he'd been expecting this for some time. Indeed, it had been his own idea that they live separate lives, as Francis and Mary now did. "I'm aware."

"Do you want it, too?" Francis asked then, and Bash found himself swallowing hard. Found that he couldn't quite answer the question.

"Look at the pair of us, Francis. Two Valois brothers, losing our wives at the same time. I wonder, if we finally have heirs, with whomever we do end up with, will that happen simultaneously, too?"

Francis groaned. "Pass me the wine, Bash."

Hours later, and though Bash had not kept track of the time, he could see the sky beginning to lighten out the nearest window, and knew that the King of France would be required to appear at some point tomorrow, preferably without the raging hangover that he was sure to blame Bash for.

Even if said King had been the one to provide the wine.

He sighed, groggy mind telling him that he should attempt to stand before he tried to help Francis to his feet.

It seemed like a good suggestion. He blinked, pitching forward and nearly falling to the ground before Francis' arm snatched out and caught him by the shirt tail. "What's wrong with you?" Francis asked, even as he swayed slightly.

"I think perhaps we'd better go to bed, Your Majesty," Bash said, struggling to hold back a laugh at the look on Francis' face as he pitched forward into Bash and then seemed stuck there, head resting against his shoulder.

"Had we?" Francis asked dreamily, snuggling into Bash's shoulder and letting out a contented mewl, and yes, Bash was going to use this as blackmail of his own in the near future.

Provided he remembered it at all when he woke up.

"Come on then, Francis. They're called feet for a reason, you know." When that failed to motivate his brother at all, he snapped, a little more gruffly, "Time for bed, you."

Francis groaned, and, if anything, leaned even more heavily against him.

Bash resisted the urge to swear, and told himself that, if he didn't remember anything tomorrow, he was at least going to have to remember that Francis was a very sleepy drunk.

He didn't think he would have been able to hold back his curse until Francis suddenly whispered, so soft that he almost didn't catch it, "I don't want to go back there."

Bash stiffened, suddenly remembering why they had been drinking so heavily in the first place. "All right. Well, I don't think Claude would be very happy if she woke up to find you passed out on her floor," he teased.

Francis blinked at him.

Bash sighed, relenting. "All right, fine. You can stay with me tonight, provided you get your arse out of bed tomorrow on your own."

"Kenna?" Francis whispered, not seeming to hear the threat.

Bash swallowed the sudden lump at the back of his throat. "She's been staying in the rooms down the hall, the last few days."

"'M sorry," Francis muttered into his shirt, and Bash did smirk, this time.

"Come on, Francis. Let's go."

They stumbled forward, Francis hardly seeming aware of his surroundings while Bash swayed and stumbled and pretended he knew where they were going. He knew vaguely that they were in one of the parlors just off of the throne room, that his own chambers were in the East Wing of the palace, which was quite a good walk from where they were now.

Thankfully, as he was too dazed from the wine to keep track of where they were going, Francis, who, although he was a bit more...clingy than usual, seemed to have a good idea of direction, still.

"I think that stuff's stronger than we thought," Bash said woozily, leaning hard on Francis as they both stumbled forward into the darkened hallway.

Francis blinked at him owlishly. "Maybe that's why King Philip swears by it," he muttered, and Bash didn't know what was so hilarious about this comment, but he soon found himself doubled over, laughing.

If not for his arm wrapped around Francis' shoulder, he would have fallen to the ground, he was sure.

As it was, the ground was much closer to his eyes than he was comfortable with, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop, until his eyes had blurred with tears that he wasn't sure were from the laughing, and Francis was awkwardly pulling him to his feet while trying to maintain his own balance.

He wasn't certain why the words continued to make him laugh, long after the punch line had been delivered. Indeed, he wasn't altogether sure that it was humor that had him laughing like a very drunk mad man.

Perhaps he simply needed an outlet, after that conversation, after the last few months of being the King's deputy and finding that, despite his works, no one but Francis seemed to give a damn.

Of course, Francis didn't seem to give a damn about anything, nowadays.

And _that_ was funny too, and soon he was hanging off of Francis, body racking with giggles, his brother staring down at him as if he had two heads. Maybe, in Francis' drunken haze, for he was fairly certain that Francis had been nursing that wine bottle as much as he, he did.

And the image of himself, with two heads, only made him laugh all the harder. Beside him, he heard Francis let out a chuckle that could be more described as a snort, and that sent him into another uncontrollable fit of giggles.

And then he heard the clear, airy tone of his brother's laughter, beside him, no doubt incurred by his brother's mad actions.

It was by no means as...rambunctious a laugh as Bash's own, but it was the first he'd heard from his brother in so long.

Bash stopped laughing instantly, smiled even as he forced himself to straighten up, though he said nothing at Francis' curious look. He wasn't going to draw attention to the fact that this was the first time he'd heard his brother's laugh since Mary had chosen to remove herself from Francis' life.

If he did, he was afraid he might never hear it again.

Instead, he glanced around with bleary eyes, blinking a few times in the hope that they would focus. "I'm not...entirely sure where we are."

Francis' lips twitched, as though he were trying very hard to hold back another laugh, and Bash really wished he wouldn't.

"Well, we were in one of the parlors near the throne room, last I remember. Then you had to go to bed, so we're going toward your chambers."

Bash raised an eyebrow. "Francis...I know you don't spend a great deal of time around my chambers, but I'd think that even you would know they're on the _East_ side of the castle, not the West."

Francis swore under his breath, though there was no real heat behind it. "Oh."

Bash snorted. " _Oh_."

* * *

Bash was quite certain that, although Francis was leading them in entirely the wrong direction of the palace, he had not intended for _this_.

Mary and Conde stood just ahead of them as they turned down the hall, in an effort to find their way back to the , Conde leaning out of the door of his chambers while he passionately kissed the Queen Consort of France, hand under her chin and tilting it up to meet him as she arched into him and gave a low moan, terribly loud in the otherwise quiet hallway.

Then Conde opened his eyes and blinked at them, brown eyes widening comically.

Bash glanced at his brother, wondering hopefully if perhaps Francis was too dazed by the drink to notice; his hope was swiftly put to rest as he saw the ashen look on his brother's face, as they both remembered everything the drink and each other's familiar company had helped them to forget for a while.

And, seeing that look returned to Francis' face once more, when only a moment ago he had been so carefree and happy, if only because of the drink, as he once remembered Francis being, made something like protective anger ignite in Bash's chest.

He understood that Mary had been through hell. Understood that she blamed Francis for it, even if he thought she was somewhat misguided in doing so. But that didn't mean that she had to continue punishing her husband every chance she was able to.

Didn't she see what it was doing, or did she truly not care anymore?

And he knew that she hadn't been expecting the two of them to even come to this part of the castle, at this time of night. That it was totally irrational for him to blame her for this meeting, yet he wanted to, badly. And part of him did.

Conde and Mary exchanged glances, stepping almost guiltily away and refusing to meet his sovereign's eyes, though Bash would have been more pleased if he had noticed the sudden chill in the air and decided instead to _leave_.

"Your Majesty, Bash," Mary spoke up then, looking for all the world like a guilty child caught doing something she knew she shouldn't, "I didn't expect to see you here."

Francis didn't answer. Bash wasn't even sure that, in that moment, he would have been capable of doing so.

"I could say the same," Bash spoke up when the silence grew too heavy.

Mary stiffened. "I was just escorting Lord Conde back to his chambers. The foreign nobility staying at Court are usually placed on the East side of the castle, if you remember." Her words held no real bite, but they burned at him nonetheless.

He hadn't been able to be angry with Mary, when she chose Francis over him. Had been too heartbroken for that, and after, too focused on fighting for his life and then attempting some sort of a relationship with Kenna.

He was damn well going to relish the feeling now. Knowing that he hadn't been enough for her when she chose Francis, that Francis hadn't been enough for her when she chose their cousin.

"I suppose you were," Bash said, and hated that, in his drunken stupor, he couldn't summon the strength to put any malice behind the words.

Conde blinked, evidently noticing this, too. "Your Majesty, Lord Deputy, are you both...?" he bit his lip, either to keep himself from laughing or too nervous to actually ask what he wanted to know.

Francis leaned his head on Bash's shoulder, and Bash knew that they should take their leave now, before Francis did something that was going to truly embarrass him in front of his wife and her lover. Like hug him.

"We were just leaving," he heard himself say, as if from quite a great distance.

Conde blinked, and then attempted to school his features. "Of course. Do you need someone to escort you?"

Bash was trying not to glare. He really was.

He was also trying not to say something along the lines of, "As if I'd let you near enough my brother to stab him while he's vulnerable," but he had already failed at that once.

He ended up answering in a tone that would have impressed Catherine, "I think we can find our way around the castle on our own, thanks."

Not really noticing what he was doing, Bash wrapped an arm under Francis' shoulders and propelled him in the opposite direction with only a nod toward Mary, ignoring Conde altogether.

He was grateful that, despite the early hour, it was still dark enough that they only had to walk a few paces before Mary and Conde could no longer see them.

Was even more glad when Francis collapsed against him, throwing them both into the wall and closing his eyes comfortably as he leaned against Bash's shoulder.

At least he hoped Mary could no longer see them,stare with that guilty gaze that seemed to suggest she knew exactly why they were drinking so late. Early. Whatever.

Bash sighed. He'd thought he'd taught Francis to take his alcohol better than this, when they were younger.

Though he had to admit, the stuff from Philip was stronger than anything he'd had in some time.

Maybe he'd have to send the man a thank you for it.

He had a feeling he would have never seen Francis smile tonight, without it.


	3. Stubbornness

The morning after Francis' illness, Bash did not look to see him immersed in Court affairs once again, sitting on his throne when Bash came in that morning to make his report to Mary, when the members of Court came forward to make their complaints known to the King.

But there Francis was, sitting calmly on his throne with one leg crossed over the other, looking to all the world a perfectly healthy king, returned from that hunting trip, as Bash believed had been the official story.

Mary sat beside him on her own throne, looking rather stiff, as she always did after a confrontation. Conde was nowhere in sight.

Catherine, lurking amongst the other nobles, was sending furtive glances in her son's direction every few minutes, as if she were afraid he would collapse at any moment, and it was that alone that made Bash realize that Francis should still be abed, resting.

Catherine de Medici may be overprotective of her children to lengths that could be called extreme, but she seemed to believe in a tough sort of love when it came to their health. And if she was still worried, even if this had been quite a scare, then clearly Francis should still be resting.

Frankly, Bash was surprised she hadn't managed to drag him off to bed already, but he supposed this was because, while that had been perfectly acceptable behavior a year ago, when Francis was a prince, it would be rather frowned upon now that he was King.

One of the nobles stepped forward then, before Bash could give his report, demanding that Francis deal with a matter of utmost urgency - a dispute between two rivalling houses - and Bash watched his brother as Francis listened to the man.

Or rather, didn't.

He could see within minutes that Francis was not himself. Distracted might not have been the right word to describe him in that moment, as he watched Francis tap his fingers idly on the arms of the throne, or simply bored. But then he noticed the dark circles under his brother's eyes, the way his body seemed too tense, and his mouth set in too firm a line, as though it was taking all of his concentration merely to listen to the man's complaints.

And this was just the first order of the day.

When the nobleman's ramblings of injustice finally came to a halt, the Court waited in silence for the King to make his decision.

But it seemed that Francis found the hem of his royal robes far more interesting, fingering a bit of frayed cloth between his forefinger and thumb and paying their silence no mind.

After what seemed an insurmountable amount of time during which feet were shuffled awkwardly and Bash almost stepped forward to claim the King's attention himself, Mary cleared her throat. The nobleman had come to the King, after all, and not to her, and she could not simply give justice where it was her husband's place to do so. Not now that he was again sitting on the King's throne, and she upon the Queen's.

The sound in the empty chamber seemed to make Francis jump, and he glanced around with something like surprise on his features, as if he had not expected the members of Court to still be there when he looked up.

Bash sighed, taking a step forward, and the sudden movement seemed to holt Francis out of whatever had distracted him so fully until this moment.

"Ah," he said, giving the nobleman an apologetic smile. "Very well. The Crown will reimburse you for your dealings with Lord Alwood, and from this day forth, you shall have the protection of the Crown against any further attacks you might provoke from him."

So he had been listening better than Bash had thought, it seemed.

He was impressed.

Bash stepped forward then, before anyone else could, and gave his report. His voice caught as he spoke, and, for a moment, he didn't know if he could continue without breaking down. "The skirmish in the village was merely a cover for Protestants, attempting to seed discord among the people. They managed to escape before our men could catch them, but I've sent my best men after them."

Francis stared at him a beat too long, eyes glazed over, before nodding. "Very well. See to the arrangements, Deputy." He fell silent then, still looking dazed and exhausted.

Mary took pity then, lifting her head and giving Bash a dazzling, but a smile that made Bash uncomfortable after everything, nonetheless. "Thank you, Deputy. The King is most gracious for your report, as are we all."

He dipped his head. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Mary glanced at her husband once more, and then clapped her hands together. "The Court is dismissed at this time. The King is needed for consultation on important matters concerning the crown, and will see to all of your grievances at a later time."

The nobles muttered amongst themselves, but dispersed as they had been told to, and Mary, after sending one last worried glance at her husband, disappeared with them.

* * *

The next time Bash saw his brother was hours later, and he would have hoped Francis had taken the opportunity Mary had presented him and rested, as he clearly needed to.

Of course, he'd known Francis all of his life, and should have realized by now that this would hardly be the case.

Francis was pouring over a pile of maps and letters in the King's council chamber, with several of his most trusted generals, all of whom looked a bit uncomfortable at the fact that their King was obviously not entirely with them, and most likely making decisions he would not remember, when he finally rested.

Evidently, he really had been needed on important matters. Bash didn't bother to hide his disappointment, though to his own surprise, it was directed more at Mary than at Francis. Mary, for thinking he was simply distracted, and not even realizing...

The generals looked up upon seeing Bash enter the room, and, a moment later, Francis did as well.

"Bash," he said by way of greeting, and Bash frowned at the glazed look in his eyes, even as he dipped his head to acknowledge his king.

"Your Majesty." Then, to the generals, "I need to speak with the King alone. It's a matter of..." he glanced back at Francis, "utmost urgency."

The generals almost looked relieved as they took their leave, even as Francis frowned in confusion at him. It was not until the doors had shut behind them, however, that he said anything.

"What is it?" Francis demanded, spinning to Bash on, the deputy couldn't help but notice, rather unsteady feet. Francis leaned hard against the table, breathing rather hard, and Bash fought the urge to sigh.

"You should rest now, brother," Bash said softly. "Let the work til tomorrow."

Francis ignored him, turning back and scribbling away furiously at the parchments. "I thought you said this was a matter of urgency? These edicts won't wait until I've had a nap, Bash."

"Are they really so important?"

Francis finally glanced up, giving Bash a look that he recognized all too well, before looking down again. "Yes," he said simply, and this time, Bash did sigh.

"You're going to kill yourself if you don't slow down," Bash snapped then, and Francis flinched at the choice of words, and _now_ Bash had his full attention, where none had had it all day.

He decided to take full advantage of it, while he still had the chance to do so, before his brother's eyes glazed over again, like they had been for the majority of the day.

Bash sighed. "You need to rest, Francis. You just recovered from a serious illness, and you don't have to prove to anyone that you're strong enough-"

"But I did recover," Francis interrupted, sounding more pained than petulant, as Bash was reminded all too well of a childhood of refusals to nap when he needed to, or to take medicine when a physician prescribed it. His eyes held a distant look, and Bash had no doubt, in that moment, that his mind was miles away from their conversation, for they seemed oddly pained. "The physicians say I am fine."

"Yes, and I suppose they suggested that you hurry back to your duties as quickly as possible? That you don't take it slowly, for the next few days?" Bash demanded, and, to his relief, Francis seemed to sag guiltily underneath the words.

"That's what I thought," Bash muttered triumphantly.

Francis shook his head. "I...France will not...cannot wait for her King to be wholly well; there are far too many important things that were thrown aside during my...illness. And I must...it is easier to be exhausted than alert and remember..."

He fell then, and if Bash had not been expecting it to happen for some time now, he would have fallen against the corner of the wooden desk and bashed in his head, he was certain. As it was, Bash was able to grab him before he could do so, pulling him up none-too-gently, but with enough of a jarring impact as Francis was placed on his own two feet again that the pain seemed to ground him to his surroundings.

"You idiot," Bash muttered, almost fondly, and didn't protest when Francis practically collapsed against him, tired to the bone. He was able to lead Francis over to the nearest chair, which Francis had been stubbornly ignoring for some reason that Bash couldn't understand, and thrust him down in it without much of a fight.

"You're no use to France half-dead on your feet," Bash tried to reason with him then, crouching beside the chair and waiting for Francis to let go of him, flinching even as he said the word and realizing that now was far too soon to be using such analogies.

He didn't think he ever wanted to use that word in connection to Francis again.

Thankfully, Francis didn't seem to notice his sudden change in demeanor, too busy scrubbing at his face with the hand that was not currently clutching to Bash's as though he were his lifeline.

Bash had the uneasy feeling that perhaps he was.

They sat like that for some time, and Bash was almost beginning to think that Francis had finally fallen asleep when his brother spoke again, voice hoarse as though he had been crying, even if there was no evidence of tears in his eyes as he turned to Bash.

"I just...can't think about _her_." He truly didn't need to elaborate on who she was, but he did, anyway. "Mary. And..." his lips curled, "Conde. I know he's gone back to his brother for now, but he'll return. And I know that if I rest today, it'll be the only thing my thoughts will turn to."

"She hasn't broken things off with him?" Bash asked, surprised and a little more disappointed in Mary than he had been this morning.

Francis shook his head. "I need to be King, for France, and I need my queen by my side, but all I can think about is the fact that, while I lay dying, Mary and Conde were..."

That was decidedly more information than Bash had wanted to know about the nature of Mary and Conde's relationship, and he was secretly glad when Francis stopped talking, too overcome to continue, but he gave his brother's wrist a reassuring squeeze all the same.

"You've been through a horrible illness, Francis, one that nearly claimed your life. You need to rest and recover before you grace the Court with your presence again, or you won't be able to be the King we need right now. And...if Mary can't help you get through this, I will do what I can."

Francis looked up in surprise, and then, finally smiled, a smile that Bash hadn't seen in far too long. "All right, Brother. You've been convincing. I'll rest."

* * *

It was not until Bash had nearly carried him back to his chambers and saw that Francis was indeed going to rest that he finally left him alone, and Francis, loathe though he was to do so, attempted to sleep.

It would not come.

He tossed and turned for some time, until the pain that had plagued him ever since waking from his illness grew too great and he summoned the servant he knew stood just outside the door.

"I need you to relay a message for me," Francis told the servant, and the man straightened immediately, eager to be of service for his king. "You must take your fastest horse and search for Nostradamus, my mother's former...advisor. I understand him to be seeking shelter from the Crown," from my mother, he didn't say, "in the abbey where my father, may he rest in peace, was laid to rest." His eyes narrowed. "You will be compensated for your troubles."

The servant hesitated only for an instant. "And what shall this message say, Your Majesty?"

Francis' lips twitched, even as he reached within the front pocket of his robes and pulled out a letter-sealed with the mark of the King.

The servant swallowed at the sight of it, reaching out to take it when Francis' other hand came up to close around his. The man looked up in bewilderment.

"Can you read?" the King demanded, his voice oddly cooler than it had been moments before. The man shook his head instantly, and the King seemed to relax again. "You will not show this letter to anyone but Nostradamus; not my mother, not even the Queen, and certainly not anyone you meet on the road. You will destroy it first, do you understand?" At the servant's hesitant nod, Francis' hand shook his, a bit more insistently. "It is a matter of the state. Of France's very stability. If anyone were to find it...You will find some way to destroy it before they can read its contents."

The servant bit his lip, before gently taking the letter from his king. "As you wish, Your Majesty. I will see that the letter is delivered safely."


	4. The Incident

"There's nothing for it," Francis said solemnly, leaning against the stone pillar in Bash's chambers and letting out a rather- in Bash's mind -dramatic sigh. "We're simply going to have to run away together."

Bash choked on his water, sputtering until he could think up something halfway intelligent to say in response to that. In the end, all he could think up was, "What?"

Francis glanced at him, eyes full of sadness and longing. "Olivia and I," he repeated, as if Bash were quite dull. "Until Father realizes that I cannot be with anyone else, and we can marry and throw out this foolish engagement with the Scottish Queen. We can keep an alliance with Scotland...some other way."

Bash was sure that he looked like a fool, standing there with his mouth gaping open at Francis' words, and, at any other time, he supposed he would have found the situation laughable. Finally, "Francis, you can't do that."

Francis' nostrils flared in irritation. "Why not?" he demanded. "I love her, and why shouldn't I be able to marry her? She's rich, like my mother was when Father married her, and she'll be a far sight better for France than a misplaced Queen from war-torn Scotland. Besides, engagements are broken all the time."

Bash pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because...because you're the Dauphin of France. You can't just run off with a girl because you like her."

"I _love_ her," Francis corrected, and Bash was hard pressed not to sigh. He thought perhaps he was coming on with a strong headache, and suddenly he knew what it was to have to take care of children, and why Catherine de Medici and his mother seemed to have grown wrinkled upon wrinkles over the years, which had nothing to do with age.

He tried to think of what his mother might say to this, because he thought perhaps Catherine's words would be too harsh, as would their father's, but Bash's mind was carefully blank.

"You can't afford to love someone in your position, Francis," Bash tried to explain, and then, at the look on Francis' face, decided he had better change tactic. Quickly. "What will people think of their future queen if they learn that she ran off with the Dauphin of France before you were married? She'd be the scandal of Europe, and..."

"You're right," Francis said, with slightly more enthusiasm than Bash would have expected, given the topic of conversation. For a moment, Bash wondered if his brother were having spells of madness, that his mood changed so quickly. And then he spoke again, and Bash realized this was most definitely the case. "We'll just have to be wed in secret, and then Father won't be able to separate us. I can't believe I didn't think of that! Olivia won't be pleased that we can't have a real marriage in the castle, but I suppose they'll have to do another one later, for ceremony..."

Bash's mouth was suddenly very dry. Had he really suggested that? He certainly hadn't meant to. "Father could still annul any marriage-" he tried again, a little more weakly, this time.

Francis waved this concern away. "Not if the marriage is consummated, with witnesses," he said cheerily.

"Someone will notice you've both gone off together," Bash tried weakly, his last argument. "Your mother has spies everywhere."

Francis' brows knit together in consternation. Then, "The Duke from Hapsburg will be a good distraction. No one will notice. Do us a favor and don't tell anyone we've gone, all right?"

And Bash didn't think that he had nodded, but, by the time he looked up, Francis was already sweeping happily from the room.

Bash let out a low groan, and wondered when the hell this had become his problem, and what the hell he was supposed to do to fix it.

* * *

It was not until midday that the absence of the Dauphin was noted at Court, and, during that whole time, Bash had been sweating so hard he thought Catherine, who was searching the crowd long before that, would have known something was wrong.

Thankfully, however, and Bash thanked all of the old gods that he'd told himself he didn't pray to as his mother once had, she barely looked at him.

There was a dance to commemorate the alliance between Germany and France, the Ambassador, who had apparently never done a French dance in his life, attempting to lead Lady Maria of Anjou through the steps while half the Court watched on.

Bash could only hope this was an amusing enough distraction, even as he damned Francis to the seventh circle of Hell for leaving him behind to salvage this mess.

Sitting on her throne beside the King, who was no longer trying to hide his amusement, Catherine clapped her hands and smiled, and whispered something to Nostradamus, who stood behind her as solemn and sullen as ever.

She hadn't noticed her son's absence yet, for reasons Bash couldn't possibly understand, given her overprotection of her eldest.

When she found out, though, she was going to kill him for this. Bash harbored no reservations on that front. Perhaps he should have asked Francis if he could go with them.

It wasn't his fault, Bash tried to reassure himself, to absolutely no avail. He had no idea that Francis was going to twist his words into a plan to elope with Olivia.

Catherine was certainly going to blame Bash when she found out, but then, she blamed him for mostly everything, so that wasn't new.

He could only hope she wouldn't poison him for this one.

When the dance had ended, Bash decided that it was far too hot in the throne room, and perhaps he might be able to go spar and pretend he had no knowledge whatsoever of the Dauphin's absence.

He nearly made it to the door by the time the Ambassador, behind him, was bowing before the King and saying, "Your Majesty, you have regaled me with tales of the Dauphin's skill at archery, and I wondered if I might challenge him to a competition tomorrow, before I return to my country."

Bash froze, and slowly turned around.

The King clapped his hands together. "A brilliant idea, my friend. Perhaps, though, if you are not too tired from the dancing, my son might challenge you today, and thus make it more exciting." His lips twitched into a smirk. "If he wins, you may count it as a win against Germany, and we may add in that clause about the trade agreement. If you win, we will add in the clause about our youngest son marrying Germany's princess, when they come of age, that Germany so desires."

If Bash let out a strong curse that he'd learned from his father, only the woman beside him, an elderly Countess, seemed to notice, shooting him a dirty look and muttering something about discipline under her breath.

The German Duke's lips spread into a grin. "On the contrary, this French dancing has...invigorated me. I hope your Dauphin is as good as you say, Your Majesty."

"Francis!" the King called out, and Bash decided then and there that he was never covering for Francis for anything again.

Catherine's shrewd gaze lit upon Bash then, and her eyes narrowed subtly.

If the King and Queen killed Francis, they would still need some of the King's children around as an heir, wouldn't they? Charles was far too young to be considered a suitable heir.

No, Catherine would never allow that.

He would be standing on the chopping block right next to Francis, and possibly Olivia, Bash was certain.

His palms began to sweat even as Bash stepped forward and cited the first excuse that he could think of. "Francis has...taken ill," he said, and hoped his voice didn't waver as much as he thought it did.

He began to think that perhaps he shouldn't have said anything, and left Francis to his fate.

Catherine's eyes were slits now, and Bash had no doubt that, if eyes were knives, he would have been sliced into pieces by now.

He swallowed hard. He had to be clever about this, because the King was not so sympathetic when his children were ill, so long as they could still walk, and so he had to convey some seriousness to whatever Francis' illness was, so as also not to offend the Duke, but he couldn't make it sound too horrible, lest Catherine decide to go and check on the Dauphin herself and learn that Francis was in fact not in the castle at all.

He hoped Francis and Olivia were long gone by now.

"He...had an attack of the stomach early this morning," Bash informed the Court, much to the sympathetic murmurs of the women and the embarrassed looks of the men. He no longer felt bad over whether or not this would embarrass Francis, though. To Bash, his brother had more than earned it. "The danger is passed now, but the Dauphin is very weak."

There, that had been convincing, he thought, even if Catherine was still glaring down at him with that _look_ , the one she awarded to her greatest enemies and very often to Diane. The Duke seemed to have bought into it, as had the King, if the rare look of concern for Francis on his face was anything to go by.

The Duke frowned, turning back to the King. "Then let me convey my sympathies to the Dauphin. Perhaps we can settle this in another challenge; I hear you are not so bad at the hunt yourself, You Majesty."

The King frowned as well, though his was directed at Bash, before turning his full attention back to the Duke. "Yes, very well."

* * *

Bash was still congratulating himself on the fact that he had survived lying to Catherine de Medici as well as the rest of French Court when he returned to his chambers, intent on finding his sword to go spar with the King's knights.

If he was out sparring, after all, there was no reason anyone might

He did not expect Olivia to be standing in the middle of his chambers, throwing aside the concerned servant and sobbing into both hands.

"Olivia," he said, in some bewilderment, for he had seen the two of them ride off late last night, and would have thought them married (he shuddered) by now. And besides, she spent little enough time with him otherwise, and doubted she would have come to him for any sort of comfort, should she require it. "What are you doing here?"

Olivia glanced up in surprise at the sound of his voice, and then fell into a puddle of tears at his feet, and Bash, ever the gentleman, bent down to pick her up.

She sniffed, and then, through a red nose and blotchy face, managed to gasp out, "Francis!"

Bash stiffened, suddenly worried that this was more than just Olivia having cold feet in the face of a wedding. "What happened?" he demanded, a bit harsher than he'd meant to be, but there was no time for that now.

Olivia gulped back another sob. "Francis...he...we were going to be married," she gasped.

Bash gave her a little shake. "I know that. What has happened? Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He..." she let out another stream of tears. "He..."

Bash shook her hard then, jarring her back into the present. "Olivia, where is Francis?"

"There was a...beast," Olivia whispered hoarsely. "A great beast, and it..."

Bash swallowed hard, and once again cursed Francis (and himself, if he was being honest) for this foolish idea. "Tell me what happened."

Olivia, instead of answering, dissolved into sobs once again.

Bash hesitated for a moment, unsure how to deal with the hysterical girl. He knew that, were she a man, he might have slapped her, for the shock would have pulled her from her tears, but he knew that, as unconcerned as she was for her reputation, slapping a lady was still a crime.

So he shook her again, harder than before, and finally she looked up at him.

"We were...on the way to the abbey. The one where the Court took Mass, last Winter Solstice. It attacked my horse, and Francis just barely fought it off. But he was injured, and he fell. He told me to...take his horse back to the castle and get help but...Bash, I don't know what to do."

Bash felt his insides go cold at these words. "Why didn't you go immediately for help, instead of waiting for me?" he demanded.

Olivia sniffled again. "He's going to die. He's going to die, and then Catherine is going to kill me for this, too."

"Olivia," Bash said, somewhat exasperatedly, "Go and get Nostradamus. Don't tell anyone else what happened, but make sure he's ready for Francis in the infirmary." He grabbed up his sword and riding boots from beside his bed, not wasting a moment.

Olivia stared at him in confusion. "Where are you going?"

He gave her an impatient look, already halfway out the door. "To find my brother."

* * *

Finding Francis was the simple part. He and Olivia had not made it very far from the castle, it seemed, before being attacked, and Bash wondered that the palace guards hadn't found the Dauphin before he did, even if they hadn't been looking for him.

For that matter, he wondered how Francis and Olivia had made it past the guards in the first place, their paranoia heightened as it was every time the castle entertained foreign visitors.

Francis was not far from the Woods, those dreaded Woods that Bash both feared and revered, for what was rumored to lie within them. For their significance to the pagans.

He shivered at the thought that Francis and Olivia had been attacked here, at what it might mean, and rode his horse faster, until he found his brother.

Francis was not so badly hurt as Olivia seemed to think, though he was fast losing consciousness by the time Bash found him, and would have been in a worse state had Bash found him any later.

His leg had been slashed by whatever beast had attacked him, as Olivia had not been clear on what it was, and was bleeding profusely, but the wound was not too deep, and the only true risk was infection, or blood loss, as Olivia had not thought to bind it.

In truth, Bash was more concerned that Olivia had abandoned his brother, the Dauphin, here by the edge of the Woods, not even seeming to think of the fact that he might be at risk for further harm, even if she had been returning for help.

He was half-hidden beneath a pair of shrubs, and Bash supposed he should at least be grateful that the girl had the presence of mind to hide him somewhat before taking off.

Bash was careful binding the wound, not wanting to listen to Francis cry out in pain anymore than he had to, and then he pulled Francis up, and, careful not to put any weight on that leg, managed to half-carry him back over to the horse.

Getting back into the castle would be slightly more difficult with the Dauphin with him as it had been leaving alone, but Bash managed to placate the guard at the entrance to the South Wing with a small bag of silver coins, which the man took without much protest.

Sneaking Francis through the castle to the infirmary was slightly more difficult, and Bash had to make the excuse that Francis was entirely inebriated to several young ladies before he finally managed it, and thought to himself that Francis could thank him for all of this later.

With a duchy, or something, when he was the King. Bash certainly more than deserved it.

Nostradamus was, thankfully, waiting in the infirmary for them when Bash returned with Francis and, even more thankfully, was doing so without the added presence of the Queen.

Olivia was nowhere to be seen.

"Put him on the bed," Nostradamus instructed, and Bash hesitated only a moment before letting go of his brother long enough for Francis to be made comfortable underneath the many warm furs atop the infirmary's bed.

To his credit, the Seer did not ask questions, and Bash wondered if this was because he had already seen Francis being injured in one of his visions, or, and this Bash couldn't help but think the more likely scenario, had already heard more than enough from a sobbing Olivia.

The Seer looked over Francis' wound for a few minutes, before ordering Bash about the infirmary like a serving girl, demanding certain tonics and remedies and muttering under his breath when Bash brought the wrong ones to him, asking for bandages and washing the wound out completely to ensure that there would be no infection.

Bash was not entirely sure that the methods the Court Seer applied were not some sort of magic, but, at the moment, he couldn't care less, so long as Francis was healed from them.

A paste was applied to Francis' wound, and several vulgar looking drinks were forced down his throat, even as he moaned and thrashed in his sleep, surprisingly strong in his current state.

And now Bash could thank him for the right-handed hook Francis had applied to his chin, as well as the trouble he would be in alongside of Francis when all of this was discovered by Catherine, as Bash had no doubt that it would be.

Once all of this was done, Nostradamus pronounced that Francis was quite all right enough to be left on his own to sleep for a few hours, and needed only be given for the pain every several hours. The wound, by whatever magic Nostradamus had used, should be healed within two days', he claimed.

In the end, they secreted Francis away to Bash's chambers, because these would be easiest to hide him away in, just in case anyone came looking, wondering why Francis had a wounded leg rather than the cold Bash had claimed for him. If Catherine, or anyone else, for that matter, came looking, they could always explain that Francis was feeling better and had gone off for a rendezvous with Olivia.

Much as she hated the girl, Catherine would surely be even more loathe to find them in the midst of their lovemaking.

He looked strange, lying in Bash's bed, when Bash was far more accustomed to seeing his brother ensconced, in the few times he had seen Francis in his own bed, in the midst of finery and silk, rather than the simple bedchambers of the King's bastard son, favorite or not.

There was something about this picture that was very wrong, and Nostradamus, shrewd as he was, seemed to pick up on a bit of Bash's unease, for he straightened and started toward the door almost immediately.

"Make sure the Dauphin does not attempt to get up, if he wakes. He should rest for the rest of the day, and stay off of that sore leg," the Seer informed him, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Bash blinked. "You're leaving him?" Despite his confidence that he could stay by his brother's bedside and administer the tonic Nostradamus had prescribed every two hours for the pain, he could not help but feel a little overwhelmed at the Seer's abandonment.

"I must be present at Court, or there will be questions. I will see to it that the Queen does not become worried over the Dauphin's absence," he told Bash, and Bash nodded curtly in thanks, glad that he wouldn't have to deal with a furious Catherine while keeping vigil beside Francis' bed.

Then Nostradamus spoke again, and Bash realized that he had not made the offer for Bash's own peace of mind, while he watched his brother. "I have already spoken to Lady Olivia. If it should become common knowledge that they were planning to elope...She will likely be sent away, and the King's wrath will be great, once he realizes the extent of your involvement. He prizes the alliance with Scotland these days higher than ever."

Bash found himself nodding. "I'll send a servant if there are any complications."

Nostradamus' gaze turned to Francis then, and, for a moment, Bash thought he saw the man's eyes soften. "There shouldn't be," he said finally. "Just ensure that he rests until tomorrow. He will wake up before then, but the aftereffects will not be good if he does not rest."

And then he was gone, leaving Bash alone with his unconscious brother.

Bash sighed, and turned to sharpening his sword.

* * *

"Olivia..." Francis murmured, and Bash let out a sigh, rather annoyed that after causing his brother and Nostradamus this much grief, the first name from Francis' lips was of that girl.

It was not that he had anything against Olivia. She was a sweet enough girl, he supposed, if a bit naïve to imagine that she would be able to marry Francis after all of this, but then, Bash kept such opinions to himself. He'd had his fair share of pretty noblewomen, after all, and couldn't begrudge his brother his chances at it.

He stumbled to his feet; his legs had fallen asleep in the tense waiting for either Francis to wake up or for Nostradamus to return from the rowdy party taking place on the other side of the castle.

He didn't think about what other effects the potion Nostradamus had given him for the pain Francis would endure when he started to wake might have, only trusted that none would kill his brother, and uncorked the bottle it resided in, tipping it back against Francis' parted lips and forcing the vile looking stuff down his throat even as he moaned awake.

His brother let out a grunt as he swallowed the slimy liquid, and Bash forced him to swallow it all, as Nostradamus had not specified how much he should take.

And waited for Francis to wake up fully.

As it turned out, he did not have long to wait.

The moment Bash pulled the bottle away from Francis' lips, the younger man sat up straight in the little bed, eyes wide and both hands reaching for a sword that wasn't there.

"Francis!" he snapped, and Francis finally turned and glanced at him before wilting in relief that he was not in danger, waking in a slightly foreign place.

"Oh. Bash. I..." he glanced around, eyelids drooping a bit. "What happened?"

Bash snorted, almost glad that Francis didn't seem to remember the events of the last few hours. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to answer that question. Without at first downing a few drinks. "How are you feeling?"

Francis shrugged. "Fine. What's going on? Why are we in..." he glanced around, squinting. "Your room?"

Bash narrowed his eyes, not believing Francis for an instant. "You wounded your leg fending off a wild beast from Olivia. I hardly think you're fine. Don't you remember?"

Francis blinked, glancing down at his wounded leg as though noticing that he had been injured for the first time. "I feel...completely fine. What did Nostradamus give me, then?"

Bash shrugged. "I...he didn't actually say."

Bash hadn't really asked.

Francis looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh at the look of consternation on Bash's face. "You don't know? He could have been trying to poison me then, for all you know?"

Bash felt his indignation for the other man rise. Though it was well-known that the King distrusted Nostradamus, on account of his rumored occult abilities and his closeness with the Queen, Bash had always found the Seer to be helpful, and compassionate, so long as his loyalty to Catherine was not put to the test.

And poisoning Francis would be far from Catherine's list of priorities, after all.

Besides, he _knew_...about Bash's mother, from what Bash understood, likely believing a bit in the dark arts, himself. And he had yet to breathe a word of it to Catherine, or surely they would have heard about Diane's pagan sympathies by now.

"I hardly think that, if he wanted you dead, he would have poisoned you. He would have simply left you to come up with some other stupid idea," Bash said, a bit snappishly, and Francis almost looked chagrined then, as his memory of the afternoon seemed to return to him abruptly.

"Where's Olivia?" he demanded, sitting up straight then, and Bash winced, though he didn't bother to tell Francis to lay back down. He knew it would be of no use.

"She's fine, Francis," he murmured, and glanced at Francis' injured leg, thinking that now was a good time to change the bandages. "She came back for help when you were...injured."

"Oh," Francis said, almost hollowly. He made no protests as Bash unwrapped the bandages around his wound, checking them, and then decided to wrap the wound in cleaner linens.

"I suppose it was rather foolish of us, to run off so suddenly like that," Francis said absently, and Bash was struck between the wish to knock him over the head and the worry that this would only cause him further injury.

Instead, as he finished tying off the linens, Bash murmured, "Father would have been furious."

Francis chuckled, though there was no real humor behind it. "You were right. He probably would have forced us to get an annulment, long before we could think of enjoying the honeymoon. I don't know what I was thinking. We'll have to be even more careful, now."

Bash tried not to gag at the mental image those words presented. "I don't think you were thinking."

To his surprise, Francis only laughed at his words. "No, I suppose I wasn't really."

"You weren't really what?" asked an all-too-familiar voice from the corridor, and Bash froze, hastily pulling the blankets up over Francis' wound before Catherine could see them.

Francis glanced up sharply as his mother entered the room, turning up her nose at the state of Bash's chambers, before her eyes lit upon her son, no doubt taking in his pale complexion and sweat-soaked brow.

"Bash," she said the name with every amount of distaste that she felt for the nickname, "informed me of your...illness. I suppose you are feeling better now?"

And Bash wondered if she were a bit more shrewd than he thought, and somehow knew that Francis, injured or not, had been with Olivia. Still, he winced, wishing he'd been able to tell Francis of his cover before she entered the room.

Francis glanced questioningly at Bash, and Bash hoped that his silent knowledge somehow passed to his brother. Something of the secrecy they were in seemed to break through to Francis, and he turned back to his mother with a plot in his eyes.

No doubt more born of the desire to leave his bed than to save his own hide.

"Of course," Francis answered, giving his mother a reassuring smile. "I was just about to get up now."

Bash sent him a startled look, having not prepared for the possibility that anyone else would be there when Francis stubbornly decided to get up, and unable to think of a way to tell him that he should keep resting without arousing Catherine's suspicions that something really was wrong.

Catherine's eyes softened. "Are you certain? I can make your excuses for the ball tonight, if you prefer to rest."

Francis smirked. "I'm fine, Mother. Really. Besides, I don't want to miss the Duke completely and be accused of snubbing him."

Catherine glanced between the two of them, though her eyes were, as ever, only for Francis. "And you're sure you are feeling better now?"

Francis smiled. "Much, Mother."

She sent another suspicious look towards Bash, and then gestured toward the door. "Very well. You may not have to face the challenge the Duke set, but you must at least make an appearance in the throne room while the ball goes on."

"Challenge?" Francis asked, eyes lighting up a bit, and Catherine frowned at him. He made an admirable attempt to stand on his own, and almost did so without any help before taking a few shuddering breaths and leaning against the wall for support.

"Perhaps you can take it up tomorrow," she suggested, for the fist time looking genuinely concerned that perhaps there was something wrong, and the look on Francis' face could only be described as near to a pout.

* * *

Nostradamus' eyes widened at the sight of Francis as they entered the throne room, and he shot Bash an almost frantic look, at which Bash only shrugged helplessly and nodded his head toward Catherine, who was now mingling amongst the nobles rather than returning to her throne beside the King.

The King, for his part, did not seem to care, enthralled as he was with Bash's mother's company.

Nostradamus followed Bash's gaze to Catherine, and frowned, a thoughtful expression on his face, before turning and leaving the throne room altogether.

Bash blinked at him, confused by the reaction, wondering if Nostradamus meant for him to follow, when suddenly Francis was at his side, taking his arm and pulling him toward the nearest food platter, a food platter at which stood Olivia, along with a few other beautiful young ladies, and Bash promptly forgot all about it.

Olivia's eyes lit up with relief at the sight of Francis, clearly alive and whole, though she frowned a bit at his almost imperceptible limp. He was doing a good job suppressing it, and Bash supposed that the pain reliever Nostradamus was to thank for that.

"Dauphin," Olivia greeted, curtseying with the rest of the ladies, eyelids fluttering toward Francis. The other ladies turned their attentions toward Bash then, simpering and smiling, though Olivia seemed not to notice him altogether, taking Francis' arm and asking if he might have a glass of wine with her.

That was the last that Bash saw of Francis for a while, even if he had intended to keep a wary eye out for his brother, but the ladies of Court, especially those visiting with the Duke's entourage, provided a far too suitable distraction, and Bash did not see Francis again until he was finished dancing, and caught Francis and Olivia looking as though they were about to make their escape.

Francis looked fine now, though his limp was a little more noticeable, and Catherine's careful gaze seemed to have picked up on it, for, though she was glaring at Olivia now, she had made no move to intercept them.

He was not the only one though, and, a moment after Bash joined their little group and snatched Francis' wine, not entirely sure why his brother needed it when he had not been dancing this whole time, another woman joined them, this one considerably older than Olivia.

Bash didn't recognize her at first, not until Olivia was scraping and curtseying in front of her, and Francis was elbowing him in the ribs.

"Duchess Joanna," Olivia greeted, smiling brightly. Then she turned to Francis. "I had the pleasure of making her ladyship's acquaintance earlier this evening. My lady, let me introduce the Dauphin Francis."

The Duchess turned her eyes to Francis, and the expression that overtook her features then could only be described as lustful, something Bash would have found arousing if she were, perhaps, twenty years younger and twenty pounds thinner.

Francis, for his part, managed to keep a cool face as he dipped his head toward the Duchess - but that was as long as he was able to keep it.

And, the moment The Incident happened, an Incident which would forever be held in infamy as the reason for the cool relations between the German Ambassadors and the French from that day forward, Bash wished that he could sink into the floor and disappear forever.

Or, perhaps, that he had asked Nostradamus about the side affects of those two potions.

The moment Francis managed to empty the contents of his stomach onto the Duchess' fine slippers, she let out a shriek of indignation, and the music abruptly stopped, all eyes tuning over to where the noise had emanated from, before the throne room went abruptly silent. Olivia's face went red with embarrassment, though Bash was not certain if this was embarrassment for herself or Francis.

Bash sent a careful look toward Francis, only to become alarmed when he noticed that the Dauphin's eyes had glazed over and he looked close to fainting. Bash rushed forward, grabbing him just before his injured leg gave out, and attempting to ignore the fan that the Duchess was now swatting at them both.

Catherine was by their side in the next moment, hissing that Bash, "Get him out of here before the Duke insists that his wife has been insulted beyond reparations," and then Bash found himself dragging Francis out of the ball room, with everyone's eyes still on them, and Francis once again unconscious.

Had no one been watching him, Bash would have sworn most obscenely over today's course of events.

* * *

"Bash?" Francis' sleepy voice emanated from the bed. Bash's bed, where he had been obliged to hide his brother, _again_ , after...the incident. Heaven knew what would happen if King Henry, or worse, Catherine de Medici, found him before they'd had the chance to calm an international incident, or calm themselves over potentially losing the goodwill of Germany.

No, he knew what would happen well enough. Heads would roll.

Bash sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering if Nostradamus had already seen how this event turned out, even as he set aside the parchment Nostradamus had sent him at his request, detailing the symptoms of his potions.

Bash was never going to make that mistake again. And it would certainly be helpful, to know, _if_ he and Francis made it out of this alive.

"Go back to sleep, Francis," he muttered, perhaps a little more shortly than he'd intended, and, by the hurt silence that followed, he knew his brother had not understood.

He stood, turning around to apologize, only to find that Francis was already sound asleep, one arm draped over the side of the bed while he drooled into Bash's pillow, blond hair flopping down in front of his face. Bash had removed his boots before setting him on the bed earlier, and they lay in a heap on the floor.

Bash gave a small smile at the sight, before remembering that Catherine de Medici was far more adept at potions than he and frowning once more.

There was no point to it, he thought, turning back to the parchment. Catherine was going to kill him for this.

It wasn't Bash's fault, he reflected, in an attempt to convince himself. No, not at all. He certainly hadn't meant for any of this to happen; especially not for Francis to end up causing an international incident by offending the Duke and Duchess so terribly that he left Court, vowing never to return, before Catherine could come up with a good apology.

No, it wasn't Bash's fault at all, and when Francis woke up sober, surely he would realize that, too.

But, in all honesty, if he hadn't made Francis take that damned potion, he'd have been in considerable pain for much longer than his stomach would have been able to tolerate. Nostradamus hadn't been able to force it down his throat; no, that had all been Bash.

Of course he didn't know what the symptoms of the potion would be. Nostradamus hadn't exactly been forthcoming, had only said that they would help heal Francis after his little...outing.

Yes, if one went back far enough, this was all Francis' fault. If he hadn't gone off riding with Olivia, hadn't asked Bash to cover it while the Duke arrived at Court and provided most of the distraction the two lovers needed, they wouldn't be in this mess at all.

Well, that wasn't really fair. Francis and Olivia hadn't known they would encounter a bear, especially as they hadn't gone near the woods, instead riding toward the nearest abbey...well, Bash hadn't wanted to know the entirety of their plan for the afternoon.

Bash was almost amused that, by concealing what Francis and Olivia had really been planning on doing, they had only gotten themselves into even more trouble with the King and Queen.

Well, he supposed, glancing back at Francis, that was to be expected, really, with their odds.


	5. Mothers

When he opened his door and found Bash standing outside, looking flustered and totally lost, a single tear track running down his cheek, Francis blinked, and then pushed open the door further.

"What's wrong?" he asked hoarsely, mind instantly turning to Kenna or to Mary. "Has...has something happened? Is Mary..."

Bash managed to sake his head, opening his mouth as though he would answer, but no sound came out. He stood there silently for a few seconds, and then glanced down the hall as if he believed someone was following them.

"Come in," Francis said, frowning, and this seemed all the invitation Bash needed before barging into the room. He made it only a few steps before he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground had not Francis caught him around the wrists, pulling Bash up against him gently.

"Are you injured?" he demanded, and Bash seemed to have just enough presence of mind to shake his head, but only that.

This was the most discomfited Francis had ever seen Bash, he couldn't help but think. Something was terribly wrong, and if Bash wasn't injured...

Francis moved them, slowly, despite all of his instincts screaming at him to be quick, to demand what was wrong, over to the divan, pushing his brother down and reaching for that bottle of brandy he'd kept stashed under the blankets of said divan, where Mary wouldn't find it, though he wasn't entirely sure why he bothered to hide them from her.

He didn't think that she entirely disapproved of drinking, as he had seen her do so herself often enough, though not nearly as often as himself.

He waited, knew better than to push Bash into talking about something if he did not wish to speak of it, but wondering all the same.

He had never seen Bash like this. Never seen him so...vulnerable, not even after Francis took back his throne and Mary. Embarrassing as it was, it always seemed to be Francis coming to Bash for comfort, not the other way around.

He regretted that.

Bash sat awkwardly on the edge of the divan, staring listlessly at the opposite wall, where a portrait of Mary hung; Francis' favorite, for in it she was smiling, and he would see her smile for the rest of his life, if he could.

They didn't speak for a while, Francis clutching the bottle of brandy and debating inwardly whether to actually share it with his brother, for, where the burning sensation of alcohol seemed to help him through much these past weeks, Francis was more than a little aware that it was not a good habit to get into.

He set the bottle aside then, letting it fall on its side on the divan, because some part of him knew that it would be better for Bash if he could talk about whatever was hurting him so badly if he was not dazed from the brandy, even if that might help alleviate the shock.

Eventually, Bash reached for him, putting one hand on Francis' arm, letting it hang there as if he wasn't quite certain what he wanted from Francis, and Francis finally leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Bash's shoulders, pulling his half-brother toward him, as Bash used to do when Francis cried as a child.

Bash seemed comforted by this, laying his head on Francis' shoulder and closing his eyes tightly, though still he didn't speak or even cry, as he seemed on the verge of doing, and Francis felt a bit of his own panic rising at how out of sorts his brother seemed.

They sat like that for a while, Francis beginning to wonder if he should send word to Mary, who was always so much better at this sort of thing than he, merely to ask her what was going on.

The silence lasted almost a lifetime, Bash clinging to him for silent support.

Then Bash spoke, and Francis almost wished that he hadn't.

"My mother is...dead. Catherine...Catherine bashed her head in, and had the body removed where she would not be found. I thought...I thought she was merely keeping her distance, as I had asked her to. I...banished her from the Court, so I thought she was gone, and somehow, that was better. But after...Kenna, I wanted to...she...all this time, and she..." he trailed off then, staring at that smiling portrait of Mary as if it had personally offended him.

"My God," Francis whispered hoarsely, numb.

Diane de Poitiers was not someone he loved, as Bash always had, but rather a permanent fixture in Francis' life, someone who had been there since the beginning, and who didn't appear to be leaving any time soon. And so he had grown rather used to her, over the years, had even grown to appreciate her, for the constant struggle that she and his mother battled through, and the fact that she had managed to survive it for so many years.

And for the fact that she was Bash's mother.

Until, of course, he had found out about the twins, and he was glad then, that Bash had banished her before he could, for he wasn't sure that he could have been so merciful.

Catherine obviously hadn't been.

His mother. His mother, who had killed her, and Francis didn't need Nostradamus' insight to tell him why.

Francis couldn't even muster up surprise at this newest revelation of his mother's actions. He felt so tired now, made worn and empty by Bash's words, by this fresh reminder of all that his mother was capable of doing, when she felt she was justified in doing so.

He swallowed hard. As angry as he might have been by Diane's actions, by Catherine, this was still Bash's _mother_ , dead because of his. Murdered by his, with her head bashed in, which was certainly a wretched way to die.

"I...sent word to the townhouse where she was supposed to be staying, and she never arrived there. They thought she had...decided to stay at Court. One of...Catherine's Flying Squad...well, they don't work for her any more. They told me what really happened," Bash whispered out, and it seemed that, once he was speaking, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

"Bash, I'm so sorry..." Francis whispered, all too aware that anything he said now wouldn't be enough.

"And to think, all this time..." Bash let out a shuddering sob. "I can't help thinking of my last words to her. How angry I was...how..." and he broke then, as Francis had been expecting him to for some time, deep, wrenching sobs taking over his frame, and Francis moved forward quickly, grabbing his brother in a tight hug and letting Bash bury his head in Francis' shoulder once again, wetting his robes with his tears.

Francis could hardly remember the last time Bash had cried so openly.

When their father had died, he had shed a few tears for the man who had raised him, for his father and his king, though not so many as Francis, and Francis had always thought that he was secretly relieved, even more so than Francis, that the Mad King was dead and could torment them and France no longer, father though he might have been.

When confronted with the news that Francis was stealing back Mary, he had been stoic, silent, and had mourned in his own way the loss of the woman he loved to his own brother, even if he hardly mourned the loss of the throne, but Francis had never seen him cry over it.

Certainly not as he was doing now.

She may have killed, and have hurt Bash irreparably over the last couple of years, but she was still his mother, and Francis had never doubted that she loved her son as much as Bash loved her.

He held onto Bash tightly, noting that his knuckles had gone white from the grip he had on his brother, and thought, after a while, that maybe he was crying, too.

And Francis couldn't help but wonder, as he sat there beside his brother, if this would be him, one day, crying over the death of his own mother, his final words to her being that she could never return to French Court, that he never wished to see her again, as Bash now cried for his mother and his final words to her.

Bash, who had sent her away for betraying him, for killing two helpless children. Family, in the warped sort of way that Bash had always been family to them.

But it wasn't the same. It wasn't, Francis' tired mind insisted stubbornly.

It couldn't be.

And he pushed those thoughts aside. Bash needed him right now, for perhaps the first time that Francis could really remember, and he was going to be there for his brother.

Bash fell asleep against him, after a while, and Francis smiled sadly at the sight, arranging him comfortably against the divan, knowing that he would be quite sore when he woke if Francis did not, and reaching for that brandy.


	6. The Hunting Trip I

"Take me with you," Francis begged of his brother, for perhaps the hundredth time in the last few minutes, watching Bash intently as he mounted his horse and took his spear from his waiting squire.

They were in the royal stables, the three of them alone but for the horses and Bash's hound, who choked on his lead every so often, eager for a hunt, as no one would think of coming down here when preparations needed to be made for their visitor's arrival.

It was perhaps the most important visit that the French Court had in the last century, and no one was going to risk being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Bash had predicted when he came up with a plot to sneak off hunting. The royal stable hands were outside by the gardens, waiting for their visitors to arrive so that they might escort their horses to the stables, and no one would be doing that for at least an hour.

Bash's squire, Adrien, was glancing between the two of them nervously, perhaps wondering if he should alert someone of this newest predicament and keep the Dauphin at the castle, where he was supposed to be.

Of course, doing so would leave the King's other son alone in the King's Forest, hunting any number of dangerous animals by himself, and if he left them alone, he had no doubt they would embark on this foolish hunting trip without any escort whatsoever, the blame for which would be placed solely at Adrien's feet for abandoning them.

And Francis was counting on the squire's wish to preserve his neck, should anything happen to the two of them and he be blamed for it when it was discovered he was not with them, being greater than his sense of duty to report on them.

He needn't have worried.

The squire let out another sigh, finishing the last touches on Bash's saddle before stepping back, giving a respectful nod to the Dauphin, and waiting for his master to come to a decision.

Bash sighed. "Francis, you know your mother would kill me if anything happened to you," he tried, but Francis just shook his head stubbornly.

"She won't notice," Francis insisted. "The Pope is here for a visit, and you know how she is about organizing for foreign dignitaries. And this is the Pope." He was well aware that his mother also expected him to be in attendance when the Pope arrived, as she no doubt wished to show off her prized son to the man who had arranged her marriage to the King in the first place, but he figured that Bash didn't know this, and he was not about to bring it up. He was hoping that, in all of her excitement for the Pope's arrival, his mother would hardly notice his absence, and certainly wouldn't berate him for it and risk anyone overhearing that she'd scolded her Golden Boy.

Francis got away with all sorts of bad behavior when there were royal visitors at Court, and he took full advantage of that. So, he supposed, did Bash, though he was slightly more careful. But not today, it would seem.

His brother didn't pay attention to Court matters, after all.

"Francis-" Bash tried again, though he was weakening, glancing toward the end of the stables as though he couldn't wait to be on his way and would easily stop arguing with Francis if it meant that he could go. It was already midafternoon, and the Pope and his entourage would be arriving within the hour.

Francis knew that Bash hated being present at the Court when introductions were being made, finding his presence there rather useless with him often being ignored or set aside in favor of all of Catherine's children, or, when he was mentioned, flippantly introduced at the King's bastard and then having to endure the upturned lips of whatever Duke or King was staring down at him.

Francis hated being present himself simply because Court introductions were long and terribly boring, with arduous speeches and uninteresting guests, and he'd get to know whoever was visiting well enough in the weeks afterward, before they returned to wherever they came from.

"Come on, Bash," Francis pleaded, and then his twinkled mischievously. "I already have my bow. I won't tell anyone if you don't."

Bash snorted, glancing at the little wooden bow and quiver full of arrows that Francis had brought along with him. "Fine. But don't take your own horse, so the stable boys don't notice it's gone and go and alert anyone. And...for heaven's sake, Francis, make sure we don't get caught."

Francis grinned, running to the nearest horse in the stable, who also belonged to Bash, and had been a gift to his brother on his eighth birthday, when Francis had received an ugly doublet, and standing expectantly outside the stall, waiting for Bash's squire.

The squire let out a long sigh that betrayed his feelings on the matter, but walked forward anyway, intent on not offending his master and therefore losing his position, as it wasn't the best one to begin with, serving the King's bastard, who had no real title, nor anything to bestow upon his squire when the man left his service.

Still, he was not going to argue with the Dauphin of France.

* * *

Francis loved hunting, even if King Henry did not take to it with the same fascination as his sons, because it was something that, when he was given permission, he could leave the confines of the castle for without a full entourage or his parents, but mostly because it was one of the few activities that Bash was allowed to do that Francis could also participate in, if he was careful.

On any other day, he might have even been given permission to go with Bash, though the King would doubtless insist that they take more than Bash's squire for protection.

He was glad that Bash's squire was a relative silent man, five years older than Bash and just as willing to get into mischief as either of them, though less willing to get caught for it, for Bash and Francis might get away with a sharp reprimand, but he could very well lose his position. Still, he seemed easy enough to persuade into going along with whatever they did, even if he sometimes seemed annoyed by their risk taking.

As it was, he had no doubt that he would get in trouble for this later, as, after the Pope left, his mother would be furious, but Francis thought that it was worth it.

Especially when Bash finally used his spear.

That was something that Francis was looking forward to, as Bash had received the thing as a gift for his fourteenth birthday, not so very long ago, and Francis had yet to see him use it.

Bash was silent on the ride to the King's Forest, and Francis was content to simply ride beside him and feel the wind in his hair, and wonder if this was what it was like to be a King's son but not his heir, free to do whatever he might wish.

The squire rode behind them, obviously struggling to keep up with the breakneck pace that Bash was leading them at, and, several times, Francis could hear him muttering something unsavory under his breath, though Francis could not make out the words.

They made it to the King's Forest, situated by itself in an area far from any towns or outlying villages, in about an hour's time, and Francis reflected, by the time they entered the woods, that the Pope was no doubt greeting the King and Queen, and someone had probably figured out he was missing by now.

He pushed that thought from his mind in the next instant, leading his horse behind Bash's and following him down the King's Path. Bash knew almost every good hunting area in this forest, so Francis left where they were going up to his brother.

They rode for some time, and Francis was beginning to get a bit bored, though this was still more passing entertainment than being forced to meet the Pope, indeed, even being outside was better, when finally they encountered some prey.

Birds, however, were not something that either Bash or Francis found inspiring enough to return home victorious, though it had been somewhat exciting to chase after them when Bash's hound spooked them, and so they kept going after successful downing the creatures, Bash tying the pigeons to a string over his horse's saddle.

The deer was a real treat, when they discovered the buck several hours later, though taking it down was a bit of difficulty, and required three of Francis' arrows as well as Bash's spear before they effectively managed to chase him down.

Dragging it back to the castle in victory to eat at supper, or perhaps to hang on Bash's wall, however exciting the prospect sounded, would be even more difficult, and, as Francis and Bash argued over the best way to do so, Bash's squire was given the grim job of being lookout while tying down the deer.

It was some time before the boys finally came to the decision that they should throw the products of their hunt over Francis' horse, though Francis was not entirely sure that his pony would be able to carry the weight back to the castle, and Francis would ride with Bash back.

"Where'd Sasha go?" Bash demanded then, glancing around with an almost worried look, and Francis noticed for the first time that Bash's hound, after taking off and scaring the pigeons, had not returned to them.

The squire glanced around nervously, though he seemed nervous for a far different reason. "Perhaps she went home. Maybe we should turn back-"

The sound of a pained howl from somewhere in front of them made him trail off abruptly, and then the squire's mouth dropped open in shock as he stared beyond Bash and Francis.

Francis was almost afraid to turn around, judging by the look on the squire's face that whatever was behind him was terrifying.

Although he had never encountered one, he had heard of bears in these parts, and, though that would certainly have been an exciting creature to hunt, he doubted that only he and Bash were capable of bringing one down themselves.

When he did turn around, it was not to the sight of a bear, but the sight which did greet him was not much kinder.

It was not, in all truth, the wolf that Francis noticed first, though he was faintly aware of its presence, like an unwanted relative one pretends not to acknowledge at a feast, but still Francis stiffened, staring down at the sight in front of the beast.

They had found Sasha. Or rather, what was left of her.

Francis had heard once that wolves were rabid, wild creatures, eating whatever they could find, sometimes while it still lived. He had not thought they would be capable of eating dogs, despite hearing so once or twice from the King's hunting companions when they did not think he was about, for he had always thought the two rather alike, but, seeing the wolf tear into Sasha's hide now, he could see the differences clearly.

Where Sasha had once had a beautiful coat and was roughly as high as Francis' knees, the wolf was almost as tall as Bash's horse, rather than Francis' pony, and its coat was mangy, fur missing in odd places and covered in grease where it was not.

He felt oddly detached from this whole thing, even as Francis reached for his bow, despite the squire's rapid headshakes, no doubt worried that the wolf would take that as a threat and attack them.

Bash, beside him on his horse, did not move, and Francis notched his first arrow and lifted the bow. Bash was staring in a mixture of shock and horror at what was left of his beloved hound, and Francis knew he would feel bad for his brother...later.

The wolf, for it's part, calmly ignored his audience, perhaps not even realizing they were there, intent on his meal. And then he lifted his head, though still he ignored Bash and Francis, and a bit of what had once been Sasha lifted with it, between large, yellowed teeth, and Francis could no longer pretend that he was detached from all of this.

Francis, at the sight of what had once been Bash's favored hound, leaned over the side of his horse and dry-heaved into the grass, forgetting about his bow and arrow altogether, ignoring the frightened looks that Bash and his squire shot him at the sudden movement. He was hard-pressed not to scream, after all, so he supposed they should be thanking him for not doing so, as he doubted the wolf would appreciate it even more than they did.

The wolf, who had been until now calmly making a meal of the dead animal on the ground, had glanced up at Francis' movement and at the sound accompanying it, suddenly seeming to realize that his observers were not friendly.

Francis froze, not even bothering to sit up straight and hoping that the horse he rode would not mistake the sudden stiffening of his limbs as a sign to move.

Though he would have dearly liked to, Francis had a feeling such a movement would only be counterproductive, as the wolf seemed ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

"My lords, perhaps we should withdraw," the squire tried, but neither boy was listening to him at this point, their excitement in having cornered such a great beast and having even the slightest chance of avenging poor Sasha tempering any rational thoughts of leaving before it retaliated.

"Hand me my spear," Bash ordered the squire then, and, after a moment's hesitation, he did so.

The wolf let out a low growl as the pointed weapon fell into Bash's hands, and took a careful step back, only to find itself backed against a tree.

If animals could frown, Francis supposed that the wolf had done so at the realization that he was boxed in, with the only direction to go for an escape straight toward them, but Francis was no more reassured by that than the wolf seemed to be.

And then Bash threw his spear.

Francis could remember long hours of watching Bash practice with the thing in the training grounds behind the castle, where he wouldn't have a chance of harming anyone and where he had spent the majority of his days recently, perfecting his skill.

Catherine, in the few times she had caught Bash practicing with the weapon when she came to collect Francis from his vigilance, had remarked that, at this point, he was "well on the road to becoming as uncivilized as his mother," which Francis supposed was as close to a compliment on Bash's aim as he was like to receive from her. She had, after all, seemed almost impressed the last time she had seen Bash's practice, though Catherine de Medici would never have admitted such a thing out loud.

All of those hours perfecting his aim, however, did not serve Bash well today. The spear landed just shy of the wolf's front paws, slamming into the dirt in front of the creature, but sticking up on its end, and, if Bash had sought to spear the ground, he had certainly succeeded.

Francis belatedly wondered if that had indeed been his intent, in an attempt to merely scare the creature off, but, if it was, it had not been well-thought out, for, though Francis still had his bow and arrows, and Bash his hunting knife, they were both simultaneously too close and too far from the wolf to be of much use. Francis, though he was perfectly willing to try, had never shot at such close range before, and Bash had never been good at throwing knives.

The wolf shied back at the sight of the impending spear, but when it only crashed into the ground in front of the creature, the wolf raised its head and sniffed at the thing as if it found the spear to be another treat.

The spear snapped between the wolf's teeth, as though it weighed nothing and were not made of solid metal, but of straw.

Francis did scream, then.

The wolf's head jerked up at the sound, black eyes narrowing on Francis before its hackles rose, and the remains of Bash's spear were thrown aside without a second thought in lieu of this much greater prize.

He could not have said what thoughts filled his mind later, but, in that moment, Francis froze, staring down at the hideous creature as it lunged forward, and then he was scrambling for his bow, stringing the arrow once more and shooting it without really aiming, knowing that it would likely do very little at such close range, but having to do something.

Bash's horse scrambled out of the way, Francis' brother ducking at the sight of the oncoming arrow, and his squire let out a startled cry at the sight of it, though his frightened horse was already moving in the opposite direction.

Francis heard a muffled cry from the wolf, though he noted with dismay that the arrow had failed to down the creature completely, for, though it had lodged in the wolf's left side, the animal still rushed at them. Or rather, at Francis, as it seemed that he was the only one the wolf seemed to deem a threat.

He acted instinctively then, kicking his horse to get her to move out of the way, and she scrambled up on her hind legs, seeming to see the beast for the first time, before throwing Francis off.

He slammed into the forest floor, felt the back of his head slam against a tree branch, blood instantly beginning to ooze from the open wound, and then he could see the wolf, it's wild eyes staring down at Francis as it prowled closer.

Everything seemed to blur in that moment.

"Francis!" he heard Bash shout. He vaguely understood that strong arms were grabbing him tightly, and then shoving him again into the dirt, but Francis was barely able to let out an indignant, and perhaps partially fearful, cry before his mouth was full of the dirt beneath him.

He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, pulling him up, forced himself not to resist, and then Bash's squire was hissing fearfully, "Are you all right, Dauphin?"

Francis barely managed to nod, before spinning back, for, if it had not been the squire who pushed him to safety, thus putting himself in harm's way, then it must have been... "Bash!"

The sight that greeted him made Francis' blood freeze, despite the hotness of the day, and, without a thought to his own safety, he attempted to lunge forward, only for the squire to tighten his hold around Francis and keep him back.

Bash had thrown himself in front of the raging wolf in an attempt to save Francis, his hunting knife held up as his only protection, and the wolf had responded in kind, tackling Bash to the ground and...and suddenly Francis could not see his brother, beneath all of that mangy fur.

He struggled out of the squire's grip, reaching frantically for one of his arrows, which had fallen from their quiver on his back to the ground in the chaos, and reflected that he was far quicker to jump to Bash's defense than Francis had been trying to save himself.

From beneath the wolf, Bash let out a scream full of pain, and Francis lifted the arrow in his fist, about to throw it, in a last resort as he could not waste time now searching for his bow.

He never had the chance.

The spear, brown and rusted and certainly not Bash's, much thicker, slammed into the wolf's side, beside the arrow already there and yet somehow barely seeming to effect the creature, this spear eliciting a pained howl from the creature before it fell to the ground, legs giving out beneath the wolf. It let out another whimper before going still for good, and Francis sighed with relief.

From beneath the collapsed beast, Bash managed to push himself up into a sitting position, shoving the wolf's carcass off of him.

Bash was breathing heavily, and Francis couldn't remember a time when he had looked so scared. He then glanced down at his leg, refusing to meet Francis' eyes, and let out a hiss of breath that sounded rather pained, as if he had only now noticed that he was injured.

Blood gushed from the wound, just above his knee, staining Bash's trousers and soaking into the dirt beneath them.

However, Francis did not have long to think on this, before he turned his attention to their rescuers.

They were not, as Francis had hoped, guards from the palace, come to find them and bring them home, for even that, though it promised his mother and father's retribution for sneaking off as they had, would have been better than this.

"Well, and what 'ave we here? Little lordlings from the palace?" an unpleasant voice called from the edge of the clearing, and Francis carefully lifted his head higher yet to meet the man's eyes, still rather terrified that the rabid wolf was going to bite it off.

He flinched at the sight of their rescuers, having not expected anyone of their like in this woods.

The King's Forest was not the same forest in which pagans were rumored to conduct their rituals, but a bit further away, and filled with animals who hardly feared being hunted, as it was not a sport King Henry particularly enjoyed, the Forest being so far from the castle. They were free to roam about in this place, and therefore rather easy prey.

But it was named the King's Forest for a reason; it was entirely at the King's disposal for his hunting, and for any commoner to wander into these woods was against the law, and punishable by a rather hefty fine and time in the palace dungeons. There were other woods from which the commoners were expected to hunt for their meals, so that they did not scare away any of a royal party's prey, and, for the most part, they did so without complaint.

These men were clearly commoners, and, more than that, scruffy and ill-dressed and without any horses, the man who had addressed them wearing a brand on his bare arm which marked him as a thief.

Francis swallowed hard, glancing at Bash to see what he was supposed to say in response, as Bash always seemed to know how to talk to the commoners and get them to leave them be in relative peace, only to find his brother lying on the ground, curled into a ball and clutching his leg. His face was very pale, and Francis feared that he might pass out before they could get him back to the palace.

His leg, which was covered in blood.

Francis swallowed hard, and attempted to throw off the squire's hands to go to his brother, but Bash's squire had a death grip on him, as if he feared letting go of Francis would see them both killed.

Bash let out a cry then, and the criminals' eyes were all drawn to him. However, rather than staring at his wounded leg, as Francis now was, they were studying the insignia on his jacket, seeming to find it much more interesting. The jacket that Francis had cast off hours earlier, too hot to wear it, and which Bash had grudgingly taken to keep it from falling off Francis' pony.

The symbol of the Dauphin of France was embroidered into the shoulder.

"Well, well," the same man who had spoken before now drawled. "More than just little lordlings, I would say, isn't that right, Your Highness?"

Francis blinked then, confused, for he'd never heard anyone address _Bash_ as 'Your Highness' before.

Bash straightened then, almost imperceptibly but, now that Francis had noticed he was wounded, he couldn't fail to notice the look of fear that crossed Bash's face at those words.

Francis couldn't understand why, though; surely, if these men found out who they were, they would let them go on their way, or even escort them back to the palace, and the King would be more likely to dismiss the fact that they had been in the King's Forest at all when he learned that they had saved his sons' lives.

Bash struggled to his feet then, stepping gingerly on his injured leg and trying valiantly not to let the pain of the motion show. He shot Francis a look that clearly conveyed that he should keep quiet, and Francis, surrounded as he was by men branded as thieves and murderers, no matter how convinced he was that they would not try to harm they boys further, stayed silent in the squire's arms, and ignored the way the squire was pinching them painfully, as if to drive Bash's thoughts home.

The criminals' attentions were only for Bash now, and Bash seemed contented by it. "Yes," he gritted out painfully, "and I thank you for rescuing us." He sounded suddenly much older than his fourteen years, but the criminals seemed to find this amusing, several of them chuckling while their leader withheld a smirk.

"Rescuing you?" the leader asked. "Who said anything about rescuing you?" He glanced at the wolf's carcass. "Ah, from that, I suppose. Yes, well you're very welcome, Your Highness."

Bash frowned then, and this time, when he looked at Francis, he was entirely unable to hide the terror in his eyes. But, when he turned back to their 'rescuers,' his face had hardened, and he reminded Francis suddenly of Henry. "If you harm a hair on my head, or my father's beloved bastard, he'll see that you're drawn and quartered for it."

Francis' eyes widened. Father's bastard? Him? What would possess Bash to say something like that?

But before he had a chance to voice his confusion, which would no doubt have ended badly, the squire was pinching him hard again, that same signal to keep quiet and, though he disliked being told what to do by a lowly squire, he kept silent, anyway, trusting that Bash had some reason for impersonating him.

Impersonating the Dauphin of France was punishable by death.

The criminals all snorted at this, and then their leader murmured, "Yes, Dauphin, we're counting on it."

When Francis glanced up again, still unused to hearing Bash called the Dauphin, rather than himself, it was just in time to see Bash reach down to clutch at his injured leg, and abruptly fall to the ground, unconscious.


	7. The Hunting Trip II

They were going to eat the deer that Francis and Bash had caught.

Francis, for some reason, found himself more angry over this than the fact that these men had kidnapped them, though certainly not as angry as he felt over Bash's harsh treatment thus far, despite his injury, and managed to convey his anger quite well in the glare he levelled at these criminals while they started their fire in a small clearing not far from where Francis and Bash had been.

They bound Francis and the squire to two close trees and cast the injured Bash down beside them on the ground, hands tied behind his back, before setting up their camp, and had not acknowledged the hostages since, despite Francis' frequent threats.

Though the men did their best to ignore him, perhaps finding the glare more amusing than disturbing, as they gutted and skinned the deer and prepared it for their evening meal, not once glancing in Bash's direction, as if, by ignoring him, they were ensuring he would not wake up for them to have to deal with.

Bash. He glanced over at his brother, thrown bodily to the ground once the band of thieves had made their camp here, and left there, seemingly without another thought, as Francis and Bash's squire were tied down and jeered at.

Bash had not yet woken, and Francis was growing worried.

Worried that Bash might not wake again.

But that was ridiculous; the wound, bloody though it was, had been to his thigh, not his head, so he should wake up.

He had to.

"It'll be all right," the squire whispered to Francis then, as if reading his thoughts. "The King and Queen will notice that you're missing, and come looking for us."

Francis swallowed, but didn't get the chance to answer before one of their guards - a man with the brand of a traitor across the right side of his face - glared at them and snapped for the squire to be silent.

Bash's squire did not speak again.

Francis was almost glad of it, for he didn't know what he would have said in any case.

Francis felt his stomach growl sometime toward the end of the thieves' meal, though his mouth had begun to water long ago, and he let out a huff of irritation, focusing on Bash. Though there were limits to what he could do, considering that he was tied to a tree, but Francis managed to position himself as close to Bash as he was able, letting his brother's head fall on his shoulder, and thinking up scenarios of escape.

Bash was always a much better thinker when he was under pressure, though Francis had been known to get them out of almost as many scrapes.

When Bash finally woke, it was nearing evening, the men already making short work of the deer, though, Francis noted with some annoyance, they never offered any of the meal that _Francis_ had helped catch, not _them_ , to their prisoners.

Bash let out a low groan, careful not to move and aggravate his injuries, or, perhaps, careful not to let their kidnappers know he was awake, but, if that was the case, his effort was wasted when Francis jumped, scooting over to his brother - and dragging the squire along with him.

"Bash!" he cried out, though he had the presence of mind to do so quietly.

Bash let out another groan at the sound, as though Francis had screamed it, and then sat up slowly, lifting his head and glancing about with hooded eyes.

There had been some part of Francis, unrecognized until now, that was terrified Bash would not wake up, and now that he was awake, Francis resented the bonds tying him even more, that he could not jump up and hug his brother.

Bash glanced at him, gave Francis a weak smile before silently observing their surroundings, like a solider, Francis couldn't help but think, and then he felt a bit ashamed that he himself had not done the same thing when they arrived here beyond the cursory glance.

Then Bash winced, hissing in a deep breath and glancing down at his wounded leg.

Francis followed his gaze.

It looked even worse in the light of the clearing, despite it now being almost dark, than it had before, when Bash had gotten the wound. And it was larger than Francis thought it was, too; a gash about the size of his fist, and distinctly shaped like that of a wolf's front teeth.

"It's all right," Francis attempted to reassure Bash, and knew from the look in Bash's eyes that he was failing miserably. "It isn't that bad, and surely someone will come looking soon," he repeated the squire's words, noticing that they sounded even less reassuring from his lips.

Bash glanced up through pain-lidded eyes at Francis, and attempted a smile. "Yeah," he said finally, face strained from the pain he must be in, "You're right, I'm sure."

* * *

"I can't believe they think you're the Dauphin," Francis whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Bash, when he was sure the Huguenots would not overhear the words, distracted as they were by their drinking game about the fire. Bash paled at the words, as if he'd just remembered them himself, exchanging a worried look with his squire, who seemed to realize something in that moment that Francis did not, before turning to face Francis full on.

He looked scared, and Francis couldn't understand why.

"Francis...promise me you won't say anything," he hissed, and the intensity in his voice kept Francis from replying with the sarcasm he would have otherwise. "Let them keep thinking that."

Francis blinked at him, bemused. "But...why does it matter?" he asked finally. "I mean..."

Before Bash could answer, one of the Huguenots, noticing that Bash was now awake, stepped away from the fire around which they were all gathered, talking in low tones, and moved toward them, a bowl in one hand and Bash's hunting knife strapped to his belt.

Bash eyed the knife covetously, not meeting Francis' eyes now and focusing all of his attention on it as their captor moved forward.

"Eat," the man snapped once he was to them, shoving the bowl of food toward Bash only, and Francis glared rather jealously at it, as his own hands were still bound, and more so when Bash simply set the bowl aside and regarded their captor as though he were a puzzle Bash was trying to figure out.

"My father will pay-" Bash began, but the man cut him off before he could offer the bribe, and Francis wondered if this was because he knew his men might be tempted by it while he did not want it, or if he simply didn't care.

Madmen usually didn't.

"We're not going to be takin' you back to yer father for a ransom, brat," the man said, practically leering now, and Francis had to resist the urge to move closer to Bash instinctively, like a much younger child. "We've no use for _Catholic_ gold."

Francis flinched at the way the man spoke the word, almost as though it were a slur. "You're Huguenots," he breathed in a mixture of disgust and curiosity, for he'd never met one before, and the thief smirked at him.

"So the bastard does have a tongue, after all," he smirked, and Francis found himself glaring, yet again.

"Indeed we are, little bastard, and it's long past time us Huguenots had a chance to express ourselves to His Majesty." A slow, cruel smile curved his face. "Since he doesn't seem to listen to anything else, we've been thinking 'e might listen to his own sons."

"If you harm us my father will see you hanged," Bash promised, sounding far braver than Francis.

"He'd have to catch us first. By the time he finds you...well, we'll be long gone."

Francis stiffened at those words, for it was the first time the thief's earlier words had sunken in, the first time he'd believed them. _We've no use for Catholic gold_. They weren't being held for ransom. These men didn't want a Catholic King's pardon, or his blood money.

"You're going to kill us," he breathed out, and, from the lack of surprise on Bash's face when he did so, realized with horror that Bash had likely come to this conclusion some time ago.

"Oh, I've got not'in against _you_ , little bastard. Leastways, not yet. Your father's the one we hate. It's him and his ilk what did this to me," he lifted up the branded arm, "and killed my son."

Francis just stared at him, not feeling particularly sympathetic.

"And one day," now his attention was on Bash, as if he'd forgotten Francis was even there, "when you grow up and take yer father's throne, you'll see to it that the same thing happens. You'll be the same as him," said the thief, and suddenly Francis understood, with stunning, horrible clarity, why Bash had not corrected them when the men assumed he was the Dauphin, and not Francis. "And now we've the chance to ensure that doesn't happen."

He was protecting Francis. Again.

Just as he had, without a thought, by throwing himself in front of the wolf to get Francis to safety.

God, Francis could happily kill him at that moment. Providing, of course, that the Huguenots did not do the deed for him first.

"Why?" Francis asked then, and Bash actually rolled his eyes, looking like he was about to snap at Francis, rather than their captors.

The men, however, seemed to take pleasure in Francis' curiosity. "Because, little bastard, we're Huguenots, and yer father is a Catholic King. He'd see us all hung simply because we find fault in his worshipping, when he spends the rest of his time whoring and killing innocents."

Bash raised a brow, unable to keep up his façade of disinterest by that point. "Says a thief who leads a band of murderers and thieves into the King's Forest," he quipped, earning a glare.

"I'd'a not had t' murder if yer father's men hadn't made it illegal to worship in our churches, and sent in his guards to kill my wife and son."

Francis blanched.

Bash, however, was unmoved. "Killing me won't solve anything," Bash pointed out in a surprisingly reasonable tone. "I have brothers."

The man snorted. "Indeed. A bastard and a couple of children long from the throne. But killing you will send a message, and there are just as many noble Huguenots as peasants."

"Isn't it against your beliefs to kill anyone, much less a child?" Francis burst out then, and the band of thieves turned to him as one, as though they'd forgotten he was even there.

He wasn't certain on that score at first, as he knew next to nothing about Huguenots other than that, under his father's reign and King Francis I's before him, they practiced heresy, a crime guilty of death, but then the other man reacted, and he had his answer.

For a moment, a look of regret passed over their leader's face, before it quickly washed away. "That doesn't matter now. This is for the good of all our people."

Bash noted his hesitation, and leapt on it. "At least let my father's bastard go," he pleaded, eyes wide and, for the first time, looking truly frightened. "He's no threat to you. He's an innocent in all this."

"No!" Francis shouted, before he could stop himself. As much as he didn't want to die, he wasn't about to let Bash die for him.

"Quiet you!" the man snapped, reaching out with terrifying speed and smacking Bash, rather than Francis, across the face. Francis flinched in sympathy, wondering why he'd been ignored, and then realizing it was not Francis' outburst that this man was angry with. "Enough talk then." And then he was stepping away, and Francis and Bash exchanged confused looks.

"Aren't you going to kill us?" Bash demanded then, and Francis resisted the urge to kick him for reminding the man, even if he was certain the Huguenot had never forgotten.

The man gave Bash a sickly smile. "In the morning, Your Highness. We men wish to reward you with the same death your King would give us, to make fair."

Francis tasted blood on his lower lip, but didn't dare ease his teeth up. He and Bash exchanged another look then, this one far different from the last, for there was no confusion in it.

And then Francis saw the silver hunting knife, the one that Bash had brought on their hunting trip and which had been taken away by the Huguenot's leader, glinting between Bash's cupped fingers.

Suddenly, the reason behind Bash's stalling, his attempt to draw the Huguenots into conversation despite the fact that they had nothing to say he didn't seem to already know, made perfect sense. And, while Francis still didn't understand how Bash had managed to sneak back the weapon, he was rather proud of his brother for doing so, and annoyed with himself for not thinking to.

* * *

Francis awoke from his light doze - he had always been a light sleeper, provided he wasn't ill - to the sound of a rope being cut through, very close to his skin. He yelped, sitting up straight and leaning away from the rough edge of the knife before he even registered his surroundings, and then he blinked awake.

Bash was leaning across behind him, the dull edge of the blade pressing into Francis' side as Bash attempted to free his squire.

It was the only sound in the Huguenots' camp, besides their own snoring, the crackling fire, and the occasional call of an owl, far away, and Francis was terrified that at any moment someone would wake and see what they were doing. He straightened his back, giving Bash more room to work.

As he did so, his eyes moved unconsciously toward the dying embers of the fire, and he shivered, though it was not a particularly cold night.

He'd seen someone burned at the stake before, just outside the palace walls when he was ten years old, though his mother had quickly whisked him away when she caught him watching. An old woman, accused of witchcraft. She'd screamed for half an hour before the flames finally took her.

_"We men wish to reward you with the same death your king would give us, to make fair."_

He was slightly annoyed, in a selfish, fearful sort of way, that Bash was freeing his squire before his own brother, but he supposed that he'd been asleep, while the poor squire had not.

Bash did not waste a moment. The second the squire's bonds snapped free, he was leaning back, against Francis' shoulder as he worked at Francis' own bonds.

"Go! Get out of here, and don't wake them up," Bash snapped at the squire, unnecessarily loud in Francis' opinion, who had stood to his feet and was glancing between them and the safety of the woods, however safe it might be when there were still wolves present, longingly.

The squire did not need telling twice. He jumped to his feet, not sparing Francis and Bash a moment's glance before taking off into the woods, surprisingly silent, considering the look of fear on his face.

Then Francis' bonds were free, and Bash was pushing him silently to his feet.

Francis gulped, his next words whispered with far more bravado than he felt as he glanced from Bash back to their sleeping captors. "I'm not leaving until you do, Bash. Here; I'll untie you." He glanced down at Bash's legs, once again thinking it cruel that the men had tied his injured legs together, even if Bash had managed to untie his hands with little difficulty and would likely be able to do the same with his legs.

"No!" Bash cried out, and Francis blinked in surprise at the vehemence in his voice, glancing back at their captors to be sure the words had not woken them. Bash's expression softened. "No, that's fine. I'll get it. I want to..." he gestured back toward the men, and, at Francis' confused look, went on, "They took your bow. I'll get it back for you, too."

Francis snorted. "Then I'll wait for you. Or I should get it, since I'm not injured and it is _my_ bow." He glanced sympathetically down at Bash's leg, the bloody wound having stained the other boy's trousers at the thigh almost beyond recognition, and he was suddenly afraid that, by the time they returned to the palace, it would have to be removed.

It was festering in the moonlight, ugly and yellow and red, and yet Bash seemed to be in far less pain now than he'd been earlier.

Bash shook his head stubbornly. "Too dangerous. One of us needs a weapon, and you'll do us no good if you stay behind and get yourself caught. I'm the better fighter."

Francis frowned in annoyance. "Says who?"

Bash let out a sigh. "Francis...I'll...I'll catch up with you later," Bash promised, though Francis could hear the weak tremor in his voice. "I'll just slow you down now, and if you and my squire make it back to the palace, you can make sure I'm rescued properly. Besides, there's something I have to do first."

Francis blinked at that, having thought until this moment that Bash was simply tricking him into leaving, when he himself was too injured to do so. He would have said that he wasn't foolish enough to fall for that, not with the threat of the Huguenots killing Bash, had he not heard the rest of what Bash had said. Francis glanced back at their sleeping captors, and he shivered as he thought of the dead wolf, it's blood almost as messy as the blood from Bash's wound.

"I'm not leaving you," Francis insisted stubbornly, and Bash swore under his breath. "I'll help you." He wasn't so certain he wanted to offer that.

He'd never killed another person before. Hunting animals through the woods seemed a far different exploit, one far less...evil when he thought of it, no matter the reasons behind it.

One of the men let out a loud snore, and turned over in his sleep, causing both boys to freeze where they were.

"Francis, go!" Bash snapped, but Francis stubbornly stood his ground.

"You're injured," he pointed out, unnecessarily. "How are you supposed to come after us by yourself on that leg?"

"Francis, please," Bash begged, and it was so little that Bash ever begged anything of Francis, looking as frightened as he did now, that Francis almost relented, almost did as Bash asked of him.

But he didn't.

Because, no matter what Bash wanted, no matter how much safer Francis might be if he attempted to run off, as the squire had, since these men had no more interest in what they assumed to be the King's bastard than they did in his son's squire, no matter if he might be able to find the help the squire clearly hadn't, Francis could not leave his brother here any more than Bash could leave him to the wolf.

And, after a hopeful moment, Bash seemed to read this answer in Francis' eyes, for he wilted visibly, despite the darkness of the night.

"Not to break up this tender moment," a voice drawled behind Francis, and he stiffened, "but I think it's high time we stopped waiting and did what we came to do. Be a mercy, anyway."

Francis supposed they shouldn't have stopped whispering.


	8. The Hunting Trip III

_"Not to break up this tender moment," a voice drawled behind Francis, and he stiffened, "but I think it's high time we stopped waiting and did what we came to do. Be a mercy, anyway."_

Hands grabbed Francis, pulling him away from Bash, and then someone was shoving him into the dirt, and, before he could scream, his mouth was full of the stuff. He heard Bash calling his name, but his brother's voice sounded far away, too far...

Francis lifted his head when he smelled the smoke.

Two of the men were holding onto Bash, pulling him toward the edge of the woods, and Francis stiffened, jumping to his feet before he could think of a proper plan beyond saving Bash, because he couldn't just sit there and let them do this to his brother, not when they thought Bash was Francis, before being shoved down and held there again by one of his guards.

"Bash!" he screamed out, and then Bash's head had lifted, his eyes met Francis', and Francis didn't think he had ever seen his brother looking this terrified before. It would not occur to Francis, at least, not until later, that he was not scared for himself. Well, not entirely.

Francis had thought, from the vague suggestions that the Huguenots had given them, that they planned on building a pyre, and burning Bash upon it, but apparently their late night attempt to escape had pushed the men into a far different idea.

They tied Bash to a tree, heedless of either boys' cries, at the edge of the clearing. Several men were holding flaming torches, and Francis, who had never quite found fire scary before this moment, thought he just might sick up at the knowledge of what they were about to do.

The men hesitated then, nervously glancing at each other and then, oddly, Francis thought, between him and Bash.

Then one of the men stepped forward, holding his torch out perilously close to Bash's unprotected skin.

Francis didn't think then; he lashed out, kicking and fighting against the men holding him down, reflecting that even if he would never dishonor his brother by looking away when he was killed, it was terribly cruel of these men to force Francis to watch as they tried to burn Bash alive, anyway.

"Let go of me, you heretic!" he shouted, managing a well-aimed kick that threw off the man holding him. He ran forward then, heedless of the binds cutting into his wrists, knowing only one thing: he wasn't going to let Bash die for him.

He didn't know what else he shouted; something that could have been barbarians or fiend. He only knew that he made it halfway across the clearing before one of the criminals attacked him, strong arms wrapping around his midsection, holding him too tight...

Francis screamed.

The man who seemed to be leader of this ragtag group shot Francis a frightened look then. "Shut him up," he snapped at the man holding Francis, and a well aimed slap certainly did the trick.

Distantly, his mind seeming suddenly detached from what was going on surround him, Francis reflected that such a hit was likely to bruise, even if he had no experience with such matters.

Then, a completely unrelated thought hit him. The thief had him struck because he wanted Francis silenced. Because he was _afraid_. They were burning Bash now, instead of waiting til morning, because he was _afraid_ to wait, now. Because _Bash's squire was free_.

Francis smiled, and Bash, who'd been watching with wide eyes, looked concerned at that, making Francis almost want to roll his own. Of course Bash would be more concerned about his brother's mental state than his own impending death. Of course.

Riders had probably already been sent out looking for the Crown Prince and his brother. All they need do was wait for those riders to encounter said squire.

All they need do was stall, as Bash had yesterday.

"Wait!" he cried out, but knew better, this time, than to attempt to shove away the hands holding him if he wanted to be heard. "Wait, you can't do this!"

The men ignored him, moving in on Bash with their torches yet again.

"You can't just kill a child!" he shouted at them, an old argument, but he noticed that one or two of them actually hesitated, that time. So he forged on. "What would God think of _that_?" He felt a bit ridiculous, arguing theology, which had never quite been his forte, but Francis figured he knew enough about it to make the argument.

And, indeed, he seemed to, for the Huguenots were actually listening, the few whose torches were close enough to almost touch Bash pulling back at those words. Bash's eyes widened, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

But in the next moment, Francis had again lost.

"God will forgive us," the thief said, giving Francis a nasty look. "He understands our cause, and knows it to be just, or he would not have allowed us to stumble upon the two of you."

Francis opened his mouth to ask the man's reasoning behind that, but didn't get the chance before the thief had raised his torch, and the others their own, though somewhat more reluctantly.

"God forgive us for what we are about to do," the thief intoned, and the other men murmured their agreements beneath their breath. Francis bit the hand slapped over his mouth then, struggled with all of his might.

And then there was a rather sharp knife hovering against his throat, and Bash's eyes were pleading for him to _stop_.

One of the torches grazed Bash's skin then, and he let out a stifled scream, prompting the thief to strike him again, though Francis wondered at the needless violence. He may not know much about death, but he understood that burning alive was one of the most painful ways to embrace the afterlife, and there would be a lot more screaming to come.

Francis again thought he might be sick, and hoped God damned them to the deepest pits of Hell for what they were about to do. (It was a prayer he'd once overheard his mother uttering, though hers had been meant toward Henry, Diane, and several others who had earned her ire, and he rather liked it.)

And Francis opened his mouth as the flame touched Bash's unprotected skin, as he let out a cry of pain, to tell them that they were wrong, that he was the Crown Prince, not Bash, and they should be burning him up, even if he had promised Bash he would keep quiet-

"Stop, in the name of the King!" If they thought these words would have any weight with men willing to kill the King's own son, the King's Men were sorely mistaken, for the Huguenots, several of them reaching for their weapons, were not to be deterred from their course.

But hatchets and spears did not keep against the sharpened swords of the King's men, and soon enough, those who were not dead were surrendering, and Bash and Francis were free, the torches that were to be used against Bash falling into the dirt and extinguishing.

Francis was never so glad to see armed guards in his life.

Bash, however, was not able to share in Francis' joy at being rescued for very long. The moment his bonds were freed, a moment after Francis', he collapsed into a dead faint.

Francis screamed again.

Then the remaining Huguenots (Francis noted that their leader was not still amongst the living, and got a grim sort of satisfaction from that, even if he was still horrified by all of the blood around him,) were bound, and one of his papa's men, one which Francis recognized as Sir Pell, very close to his father, picked up Bash, as carefully as if he were a newborn babe, and carried him to his horse.

And then Bash's squire stepped forward, holding the reins of a horse he must have borrowed from one of the soldiers, and offering the use of the beast to Francis.

Francis supposed that Bash's squire was not the worst servant in the world, though the credit of their rescue could be more justly laid at the feet of his father's men than Bash's squire, who had simply happened upon them while making his escape.

In any case, the squire would be punished for abandoning them, even if it was to go and get help, so he decided to thank the young man now, while he still had the chance to do so.

Bash's squire flushed, and looked down at his feet as he responded. "Anything for Your Highness."

And something about that stung, even if Francis couldn't quite understand what. He nodded, stepped away, and hoped that he wouldn't have to encounter said squire again. Something told him, though, that, even if he never saw the disgraced boy again, he would meet plenty of others like him.

* * *

The Huguenots who had kidnapped the Crown Prince and the King's Son were executed, and Francis was not allowed to watch their executions, as it was deemed an inappropriate place for a child. That rather annoyed him, for he'd been deemed old enough, by the Huguenots, to watch his brother mercilessly killed for something that wasn't even his fault, and yet he was not allowed to watch justice be done.

Catherine found a way to entertain him, that day and night, though he thought this had more to do with her relief that he was safe and her wish for him not to sneak off and watch the executions anyway than the fact that she wanted to spend time with him, that day. She spent all of the rest of her time with the Pope, after all. And, of course, when she spent that day and night with him, it was so that Francis could meet the Pope, as he had been unable to earlier on account of his..."wild adventure."

Pope Paul III was not what Francis had been expecting, in the man many called Prince of the Church, the Divine Word of God in a mortal man. He was just...another man, like any other noble that Catherine brought him before to meet. Bent over on account of a painful back, old and grey, and not very impressive in any other ways. He was not Pope Clement, who had all of Catherine's love until his death and who had saved her from hers, but Catherine seemed to respect him almost as much, on account of his family's ambition alone, it seemed. Medicis had a particular respect for ambition.

Still, he looked old and feeble to Francis, even when Francis found himself looking up to greet him.

"Your Highness," Francis dipped into a little bow, as he might before his father, not entirely sure of the proper protocol for greeting the Pope. Well, Catherine probably had taught him before this, but he was rather preoccupied at the moment, with images of his brother's burned body in his mind.

No matter what he did, those images didn't seem to fade.

"Prince Francis," the Pope greeted, his voice changing from the rough, scratchy tones they'd been with Catherine to something gentler, something almost soothing, Francis thought.

He'd never known a grandpapa, as Francis I had died when he was only a little child, but he imagined that Pope Paul was very akin to a grandpapa. And even if there was something comforting about being near the most powerful man in the world as his kidnappers were held beneath the castle in the dungeons, awaiting execution, Francis would have rather been with his brother.

When the screams started, muted though they were by the closed windows, by the musicians Catherine called in to block them out while she talked about boring things with the Pope and Francis pretended to be interested, because he knew he didn't have anything else to do, Francis shivered despite himself.

Had he noticed Catherine's worried glance, or the way she looked at the Pope, something like a plea for guidance in her eyes, he might have endeavored to look less frightened.

And later, when he was too tired to think of sneaking away to the executions and the Pope finally took his leave, though Francis noticed that Catherine was not foolish enough to do the same, and he offered to serve as a confessor for Francis, should he need one, Francis was not entirely sure why he said yes. Only that Catherine seemed to be very relieved by it, and something in the pit of his stomach did, too.

No doubt it was simply indigestion.

* * *

Francis had never done something like this before. Oh, France was an auspiciously Catholic country, and the royal family went to Mass as any other family was expected to, read their bibles and kept an outward show of piety, but that was what it was; mostly for show. The King, after all, was hardly an upholder of Christian decency, his only true actions in help of the Catholic Church the burning of Huguenots. However, he did not seem to have the same compunction toward pagans, allowing them their worship in the woods without much trouble.

And Catherine...well, she was most certainly pious, but Francis was not a baby anymore, and he knew that there were things she'd done which would be frowned upon by her beloved Pope, if ever he learned of them.

So, no, Francis had never gone to see a confessor. And had certainly never dreamed of confessing to the Pope. But it had been Catherine's suggestion, and, he suspected, the Pope's original idea, that he do so. That, if he could not be made to tell Catherine what had happened to him and Bash in the woods, he might feel more comfortable confessing to someone who would keep it secret.

Francis didn't understand where they had come up with that idea, but he wasn't about to refuse the Prince of Christendom, after all, and so he went.

It was all very strange to him. After stepping into the confessional, which was far too confining and like a box for Francis' tastes, he fumbled over the words he was supposed to have memorized by now, but the Pope did not seem at all offended by his heathenism, or, if he was, didn't mention it.

"I...It was my fault," Francis burst out then. "What happened, what they were going to do to Bash. For talking him into letting me go on this stupid hunting trip with him to begin with-"

The Pope raised a hand; Francis saw it even through the wooden netting separating them, and fell silent. "Calm yourself, my child."

"But I-"

"I think, that if the matter at hand is examined more closely, you might realize that you are not to blame for the events that transpired, but rather that the...heretics who kidnapped the two of you and meant you harm were."

Francis gulped. "I gave Bash my jacket. I let them think that he was me and they nearly killed him for it, and I almost let them-" he was aware that he was rambling again, but supposed that, in his old age, the Pope had remarkable patience, for he simply sat and listened through it until Francis abruptly cut off. Unable to say the words he was thinking.

"Ah," the Pope said finally, voice suddenly soft. "You believe yourself to blame for nearly allowing these heretics to kill your brother, rather than reveal your identity."

Ashamed, Francis hung his head, not even bothering to answer.

"But why did you not do so?"

Francis' head shot up at that question, and he blinked at the Pope. "I...what?"

"Why did you not tell the heretics who you were, and save your brother from death and yourself from allowing his death to rest upon your immortal soul?"

Francis blinked. He wanted to say that it was because he was scared to, Francis realized. That he didn't want to die. Instead, the words that came pouring out were, "I promised Bash."

"Hmm. Well then, as penance for your thoughts of sin, you must go and speak with your brother as soon as possible. Let him know of your guilt, and see if he finds you to be guilty, or the heretics. Otherwise, God has granted you forgiveness, through the power invested in me."

"But-"

"Now, my child, I do believe there are others who would use me as confessor today. There are, after all, sins only the Pope may erase. Some have waited a lifetime for such a confession."

* * *

Bash stayed in the infirmary for a few days after the accident, recovering his strength and being doted upon by Diane and quite a few ladies who seemed to have realized, with this latest injury, that he was of age. They surrounded him every chance they could, when the King was not present to check on his favorite son, Diane was not shooing them out, or Nostradamus was not entreating them to allow him his rest.

Bash did not seem to mind the attentions; in fact, he was at an age when he had begun to appreciate them very much, and this only seemed to encourage the gaggle of ladies attempting to gain his favor.

It didn't truly matter, after all, that he was a bastard, when he was the favored son of the King, and, when he married some day, the king would no doubt lavish awards and titles upon him, so that he might care for his wife.

Of course, Francis' nurse Catalina told him, to the ladies who came faithfully every day to visit him, marriage was far from their minds. She always said this with an upturned lip and then would abruptly change the subject, and that would be all that Francis was allowed to speak of his injured brother.

Bash might have been taking full advantage of his days in the infirmary, but Francis, who was not injured, was absolutely miserable.

He had not yet been allowed to see Bash alone, always in the presence of the King or one of his nurses, who never would have dreamed of leaving Francis alone in the infirmary, after Queen Catherine's latest strict instructions that he was not to be left alone if he was not in his rooms or with her.

He knew that his mother had decided this because she was worried for him, not because she was angry with anything Francis had done, as she held little love for her rival's bastard son, and yet still it felt like a sort of punishment.

Francis was only glad that the King didn't know what he had done, or he knew he would have been severely punished for it, much worse than having a shadow everywhere he went. But at the same time, he was almost sad that the King didn't know, that his father could punish him and he could stop feeling so guilty for it.

Still, he wanted to see his brother, and know that, despite everyone's reassurances that he was going to be all right, that Bash was not in any pain because of Francis. He didn't trust the few seconds he was allowed to see Bash each day to be sufficient proof, after all.

So he stood outside the door to the infirmary, and waited.

It was Nostradamus who finally found him, blinking at the sight of the Dauphin standing outside of the infirmary as several courtiers still hung about with the King's son within.

He blinked down at the boy, shutting the door to the infirmary. "Are you ill, Dauphin?" he asked, voice gruff and gentle, and suddenly reminding Francis of the Pope's voice.

"I..." he swallowed hard, and inclined his head toward the now closed door.

Nostradamus followed his gaze. "I see," he said, after a long moment in which Francis had been terrified that he would not see, not at all. And then he held out a hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, during which he reflected that he was acting remarkably childish as of late, Francis took it.

They stepped into the infirmary together then, and the courtiers still milling about, hoping to gain a bit of favor by their pity for the King's son, glanced up in surprise, the girl simpering by Bash's bedside going silent at the sight of him and then, with all of the rest, dipping into a curtsey.

"The Dauphin wishes to speak to the King's Son alone," Nostradamus announced then, his tone brokering no argument, though the Court Seer had very little sway against so many courtiers. "Leave."

However, even if Nostradamus had little pull in the politics at Court, the Dauphin certainly did, as did Nostradamus' rather imposing, tall presence, and, after a few dirty looks which Francis was sure he wasn't supposed to have noticed were sent his way, the courtiers took their leave.

Nostradamus winked at him, and Francis wondered why he had ever looked down on the man, as nothing more than a magician. Well, perhaps he was still that, but he certainly had managed a trick to get Francis alone with his brother.

Then Nostradamus was checking Bash's wounds, and, as glad he was of the service to his brother, Francis couldn't help tapping his foot impatiently as he waited.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Nostradamus left as well, swinging the door to the infirmary soundly shut behind him.

Francis let out a relieved breath before turning back to his pale, injured brother. Suddenly, he didn't feel so relieved. Bash did not look well; in fact, he looked worse than he had on the ride home from the King's Wood, pale and too thin and wrapped in bloody bandages.

Francis' fault, all of those injuries. From the one on Bash's leg, which he had gotten defending Francis from the wolf, to the burns on his arms, from the Huguenots.

"Bash I'm so sorry," he gasped out, unable to hold the words back by that point. It didn't matter that he'd made a confession to the Pope and gotten God's forgiveness; he needed Bash's.

"What are you talking about?" Bash asked then, confusion in his eyes, and Francis had only a moment to think that, cruel as Bash's demand that Francis spell it out was, he deserved it.

And then it all came blurting out, along with tears and an armful of worried brother, and Francis could only feel more anger toward himself for making _Bash_ worried about _him_ , when it most certainly should have been the other way around.

"It's all my fault," he gasped out, sobbing into Bash's shoulder, and the words had the effect of making Bash squeeze him tighter, alarm in his eyes as he forced Francis' chin up.

"Francis..."

"I shouldn't have made you take me with you. I should have stayed home. Or...I should have told them who I was, so you weren't hurt because of me."

Bash stared at him in open surprise for a few minutes before whispering, "Oh, Francis. That wasn't...none of that was your fault. Those were bad men who wanted to hurt us-"

"They didn't want to hurt _us_ ," Francis blurted. "They wanted to hurt me. And they thought _you_ were me."

Bash gave him a sad look. "Francis, when they were about to...burn me...you said my name."

Francis stared at him, uncomprehending. "So?"

Bash gave him a patient smile then, and Francis felt as if they we're decades apart in age, rather than a year. "They heard you call me _Bash_. If they actually cared which of us they were burning, rather than that I was the Kings son, they would have put two and two together and realized. As it was, they didn't care. They know their cause won't win if they antagonize the heir to the French throne. They just wanted to see our father suffer."

Francis' eyes widened then. "You weren't scared about dying. You just thought they'd figure it out and kill me too!" he accused. And then, to drive home how much he disliked that, Francis punched Bash, none too gently, in the shoulder, before remembering he was injured, even if it wasn't there, and grimacing.

Bash swallowed nervously. "Well, I was afraid of dying, too," he admitted, not quite meeting Francis' eyes. "Terrified, actually. But...if they had killed you..." he swallowed again, glancing up. "I'm just the King 's bastard, Francis. Not so important. You're the Crown Prince. I thought...I thought I was ready to die, if I had to," and with those words, Francis felt no guilt about his next punch.

 _"Anything for Your Highness,"_ the squire had said. Not, "Anything for Bash."

Francis changed his mind then. The boy had been a terrible squire, and there was no doubt about that.

"Don't ever say that again," he snapped. "You're not just the King's...son," he said, skating around the word that he'd never used, not to describe Bash, no matter how many others had. "You're...my brother. I don't want...I didn't want you to die for me."

Bash gave him a funny look then, as if he knew something Francis didn't, before finally muttering, as he looked down at his hands, "Well, I'm...I'm just glad it's over, now."

Francise glared at him. "Yeah, well, don't ever do that again. Impersonating the Crown Prince is illegal, you know. Next time, I'll have to tell Father,"

Bash snorted. And then, because Francis could never stay angry with Bash for long, he did, too.


End file.
